The 51st Games
by SenseandCommon
Summary: Dean, Castiel, and Sam are all tributes in the 51st Annual Hunger Games. Each from different districts, they all share one common goal: the need to take the title of last man standing. Who will be the victor, and how will the less fortunate tributes meet their maker?
1. Of Different Worlds

Hey guys. So this fanfiction is not dead, I repeat: IS NOT DEAD. I admit, I have been super lazy about it, though. All of these chapters are edited and updated, and hopefully more are to come. I will finish it, though, and if I can't I'll post my outlines so you guys can know how the story ends. Please keep reading, enjoying it, and leaving nice reviews!

.o0o.

The sharp sound of the boiling kettle tore Dean awake. Today was the day he had spent his entire life working toward.

Dusty sunlight scattered through the thin drapes, landing carefully on his thick white sheets. Dean watched it dye the plain fabric a warm, inviting, mid-morning orange, relishing every moment he had left. It was only eight, so most of the people down in Dubris wouldn't be up yet. Not today. Today was the only real holiday anyone in the districts was able to experience.

And today was his day.

Dean stared up at the tan stone ceiling. This was likely the last time he'd wake up to this ceiling. He did the rest of his morning activities with the same sort of mentality; making his bed and dressing with a meticulous eye. Wiping any trace of sleep from his stunning green eyes, he finally looked in the large hand-stained mirror one last time. This was it.

"Dean!" his father's voice bellowed from the first floor. Even though the rest of District 2 was moving slowly, his father would expect nothing less than every other rigorous day. Dean jammed his feet into his best work boots and jogged downstairs.

"There you are. I thought you'd had a mental break or something," he father chuckled, sitting at the beautifully carved kitchen table, a mug of coffee in his thick hand.

"No, I just slept in. Just like every other Reaping Day," Dean mumbled, sliding into the seat across from his father.

"But it isn't, son!" his father shouted joyously, reaching over to place an unusually supporting hand on his wrist, "This is your Reaping Day!"

Fearful as to what he might see, Dean looked up at his father. He had always imagined how he would act the day Dean volunteered as tribute. Maybe, he'd finally be that loving and caring father that every other child bragged about between classes, or maybe he'd finally show some emotion other than blind determination. Perhaps he would finally show some sort of fear regarding the possible outcome of what he had trained his son to do.

But hen the two Winchesters locked eyes, nothing had changed. Dean looked up into the same hard, resolute stare that had glared back at him every other morning. Nothing had changed in the Winchester house, the clock had just counted down to zero.

The two men sat in the large, ornate room silently, just as they had every other morning. Dean drank a bit more than normal, careful to hide the flask from his father as he tipped it into his mug. The whiskey-stained coffee burned in his throat, so he drank it hastily. Eventually, when the room began to cloud, he decided it was best to cut himself off.

"I'm going to go into town" he interjected, "To join the festivities."

"Will I see you again before the event?" his father responded, barely looking up from his breakfast.

"No." And Dean was out the door.

The smell of fresh flowers bombarded him as he stepped outside.

"Surprise!"

A thin young boy, Raphael, popped out from behind the bushes, a giant bouquet of tropical flowers in his hands and a smile that could blind half of the neighborhood plastered on his preadolescent face.

"From the rest of the Victor's Circle to you! May the odds be in your favor!"

Dean couldn't help but smile back at the boy.

"You really didn't have to," he looked down at him, "Go give them to Ruby down in Dubris. She'll be much happier to see them."

"Oh, we already gave her flowers, silly," Raphael laughed as the weight of the arrangement caused an obvious stress on his back, "and besides, your dad will need something to take your place while you're gone."

Dean nodded only once, his neck suddenly stiff. He remembered what it was like when he was Raphael's age. This year's tributes were like superheroes. He had followed them around in the past like a lost puppy, hoping that when they returned they'd tell him all the war stories the Capitol's cameras had cut out. But as he aged, he realized that even in District 2 they rarely came back, and when they did they were broken, empty shells of the boy or girl who had left. That, and he had realized that the extensive combat training his father had gotten him out of class for wasn't normal. He had heard a few months ago that Raphael's parents had signed him up for similar classes, setting him up for a similar fate.

"Yeah, I guess," he eventually responded, "Just take them in to him."

"Wait," Raphael nearly choked on his excitement, "I get to talk to John Winchester? Victor of the 27th Hunger Games!"

"Yeah, kid," Dean sighed, "Talk to him all you want."

.o0o.

"Hurry up, men, we've got to get this place cleared out before the Peacekeepers show up! We aren't supposed to work today!"

Balthazar's cool voice shook Castiel out of his exhausted haze. Peeling his eyes from his station, he looked around at the large warehouse room. He had worked the past four shifts without breaks, and it was beginning to take its toll. Bringing his grimy hands to his big blue eyes, he yawned. Was it Reaping Day? Had he been here that long?

"That's it, everybody get out!" Balthazar screamed as he paced down the row of sleep deprived workers. "Happy Hunger Games! And to those of you under eighteen, may the odds be ever in your favor!"

The older man looked straight at Castiel as he said his final words, a glimmer of sadness in his otherwise forceful eyes. The two had been close friends for as long as the sixteen-year-old could remember. Balthazar had always looked out for him, even going out of his way to give him a job on the safest floor of the power plant despite Castiel's general lack of experience.

"Goodbye Balthazar, I hope to see you tomorrow," Castiel said as he shuffled out of the dimly lit workroom.

It was still dark outside, but the streets of Opificina were lined with people rushing home before the Peacekeepers came. Castiel threw himself into the crowd, giving in to the current of people that rushed through the broken down streets of the largest town in District 5. The crowd was like a river on the brink of flooding, moving at an amazingly uniform flow. After much difficulty, he managed to drag himself from the swarm just before the door to his apartment building.

About twenty other people followed him in, each discussing work or something else related to it. No one talked about the Reaping, even though it was on everyone's minds. Until the moment this year's representative showed the cheesy little video about the uprising and pulled the two unfortunate names, it might as well be any other day.

The elevator stopped at Castiel's floor with an unsettling squeak. He jammed the key into the lock, opening the rusting door to his dark two-room apartment. He flipped the light switch desperately, fully aware that it couldn't work on willpower alone.

"Cas, is that you?"

The voice of his older sister, Anna, shook him. She was laying on one of the dusty mattresses that were crammed into the corners of the room, her long orange hair matted at her shoulders.

"I thought you were working until 6. It is approximately 5:30."

He stood rigid in the doorway. It wasn't like her to leave work early, even on Reaping Day.

"Oh, they made us go," she mumbled, rolling back over. "I'd suggest you get some sleep. You don't want to look too tired if you get called."

The statement was meant as a joke, but it was a dark and bitter one. District 5 was rather large compared to the others. It was urban, so no one knew for sure what the odds were. Castiel just knew that no matter what, there was a chance the name pulled from the giant glass orbs would be his.

"How much money did you make today?" he asked blatantly, moving to sit next to her.

"Only about half as much as we need for rent, you?"

Castiel fingered the pay slip Balthazar had given him desperately. He was working more than he could and still couldn't pay for his home.

"Not enough."

.o0o.

The second the morning light sliced through the overgrown trees, Sam was awake. He gathered his pack and knife in a hurry, careful not to make too much noise. By now, there'd be Peacekeepers at every corner of the District to make sure kids like him didn't try to beat the odds.

He shuddered to think they may have even turned on the fences. They never had before, but this year a new Head Peacekeeper was rumored to have taken over. He should have expected some sort of change. For a moment, he closed his eyes and imagine what would happen if he found the fence buzzing like a thousand tracker jackers, if he failed to make it to the reaping.

But no such noise came from the fence as he approached it, freeing him from a bit of the day's tension. Just like every other morning, he tucked his knife into his boot, flung his pack over the penetrable wall, and climbed through the hole he had hacked open exactly six years earlier.

The town was quiet. All the illegal activities that would have taken place were temporarily halted due to the Capitol's increased attention, leaving the Hob a dead and deserted place. Two of the many Peacekeepers turned to look at Sam as he passed, sizing up his over six foot frame.

"Excuse me, sir," one of them grumbled, holding up his arm to stop him from passing, "What have you got in that bag there?"

Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes. He knew better than to carry anything he couldn't explain while they were here, and he knew they were well aware of this fact. He opened his small blue bag, exposing his mining uniform, a small bag of berries, and a half empty tin water bottle. It was all that he owned, but he knew it was more than some of the boys and girls who died of hunger before his very eyes could ever imagine.

"Where did you get these berries?" the Peacekeeper asked, snatching the only potentially illegal item in the bag.

"I bought them," Sam lied. He had picked them last night before he had foolishly fallen asleep in the woods on the eve of Reaping Day. The Peacekeepers looked at one another quizzically, waiting for the other to tell them what to do.

"We'll just take them then," one finally said, shoving the bag into his jacket pocket. He motioned for the other to follow as he hurried to question another unsuspecting townsperson.

Sam cursed under his breath. That had been the first time he had found a meal's worth of berries in over a month, and now they were rubbing up against the Peacemaker's beer belly.

His stomach roared in protest, screaming for some sort of nourishment. A feeling of self hatred surged through him as he jogged towards the Distillery. He hated reaching out for Gabriel's help more than anything else.

"Hey, Gabe!" He shouted in tune with his stomach's requests, knocking heavily on the bolted wooden door. He stood back for a moment, waiting for his only friend to respond. As a merchant's son, he was probably still asleep.

"Hey, kid," a slurred voice called to him from the alley, "They don't open 'till nine on the holidays."

A dirty yet handsome boy lay propped up against the moldy stone wall of the Distillery, an empty bottle in his grimy hand.

"You- You're Haymitch," Sam said, stifling a gasp. Sure, the people of District 12 were used to seeing their one and only surviving victor a little tipsy as he wandered into town for a drink, but this man was completely wasted.

"Pleasure to meet you, but they won't open the door until nine for anyone, even little old me."

Right on cue, the thick door opened and Gabriel's messy head peeked out.

" Come on in, Sam," he said, looking down at the now agitated Haymitch skittishly.

The two boys ducked into the shop to dodge Haymitch's array of curses, laughing as they went.

"He's really going downhill," Gabriel said, sitting down at one of the benches that lined the walls, "he's been in here four times over the past two weeks, spending enough each time to keep us afloat for a month. By the look of it, he slept here last night."

They laughed for a moment at the man's expense. Haymitch had more money than everyone in the Seam, and yet he blew it all on liquor. No one blamed him, though. The Games were known to do that to people.

"So," Gabriel inquired, "what brought you to town so early?"

Sam looked down at his worn brown boots. Nothing bothered him more than having to ask Gabriel for help.

"Some Peacekeepers took my only food," he said simply, running his hand through his overlong brown hair, "That, and what with today I sort of thought –"

Gabriel lifted his hand to cut him off. He rose to his feet and limped into the back section of the building without another word. Sam could remember the day the Peacekeeper's gave him that limp. Two of them had beaten Gabriel unconscious for defending him for carrying a poached rabbit in public. Gabriel had never walked right after that.

In a few minutes, Gabriel returned with a somewhat moldy loaf of bread and a hunk of unrecognizable cheese.

"This is all I can take from the pantry without alerting the parents," he mumbled, setting the food down in front of his starving friend. "You can probably wash up in the back before they wake up. Just make sure to be as quiet as possible."

Sam smiled and nodded, shoving the food into his mouth at record speed. Today was actually shaping up to be a pretty good one after all.


	2. The Reaping

Dean strode into the bustling town with his head held high and his chest puffed out. Despite the morning's uncertainties and the ever present buzz of alcohol, he knew he couldn't let anyone see the fear that consumed him.

It sure didn't help that literally everyone was looking. Of the hundred some people around him, he was the center. The eyes of every man, woman, and child darted to him as he passed. A small boy even dropped his basket of bread in amazement, waiting until Dean was long gone to pick them up off of the dusty ground. Hopeful that he, this year's most likely tribute, would stop and sample their product, shopkeepers and merchants waved to him furiously as he passed. He was the center of attention.

A few Peacekeepers had shown up and were chatting with the townspeople. Dean stopped for a moment to talk to a few he recognized. Growing up, he had always aspired to be a Peacekeeper. He'd get to travel from district to district and meet more than just the people of the Victors' Circle and the training center. Dean had always wondered what it'd be like to live that sort of a nomadic lifestyle.

"Hey, you!" a voice rang out behind him. Within seconds, he was pinned to the ground, the light weight of his fellow trainee, Ruby, resting on his chest.

"Ruby get off of me, we're in public," Dean scoffed, pushing her to the side. The two attracted an even larger crowd than they had separately.

"In a few days, I'll be killing you in public," she said, jumping to her feet. She extended a welcoming hand, which he gratefully accepted.

Ruby's contentment always amazed Dean. Her whole family was raised as warriors, with each sibling sent off one by one to his or her deaths. She was even named after the tribute who took her eldest sister's life in the 32nd Games, and yet she saw nothing wrong with it.

"Act surprised," she leaned in and whispered in his ear, "But I'm leading you to a Pre-Party."

Dean moaned as she dragged him down the sandy road. He had been to a few Pre-Reaping Parties, and none of them were even remotely fun. The tributes always sat in tall chairs as the safe and happy people danced below them. Two years ago, Dean had seen the female tribute throw up out of fear and pressure. Just as everyone had expected, she didn't return.

They arrived at the party, the screams of joy from a hundred nameless faces ricocheting off every surface. Three large banners reading "May the odds be ever in your favor" and "Happy Hunger Games" were strung up on each of the stone walls, adding a sort of childish aura to the otherwise terrifying event.

"May the odds be ever in your favor!" person after person yelled as Dean passed. People reached out and patted him on the back, simultaneously pushing him to the same oversized, overdecorated chairs they used each year. They were the thrones of the Hunger Games' ghosts.

He looked over at Ruby for support, but she was gone. A look of bewilderment covered her otherwise vacant face. For her, this was the most amazing and exciting moment of her life. She was famous.

As he was thrown into the chair by a rather large man, a sort of realization hit him. This was it, his life was over. He was a tribute now, and there was nothing he could do about it. If he failed to volunteer, he'd be an outcast. If he did—

"Speech, speech, speech!" the crowd chanted, some beating their fists angrily against the stone tables that littered the room. They reminded Dean of a crowd of animals thirsty for bloodshed.

Ruby rewarded them with a long-winded and verbose speech about how she planned on ripping out the hearts of all of the other tributes, a statement that had Dean rightfully queasy. She ended by growling like a wild animal, bearing her teeth menacingly.

The crowd turned their prying eyes to him next. He had always hated speaking, but as a tribute, every word he spoke would be broadcast to thousands. This was just practice.

"Uh, Hey," he started, his mouth suddenly as dry as the desert that surrounded the town, "I will return the victor of the 51st Hunger Games."

Every person in the room remained silent, waiting anxiously for him to finish as powerfully as Ruby had.

"I will return victor," he repeated, sitting a little straighter in his chair, "Even if it means I have to murder Ruby myself!"

The words flowed out of his mouth before he could stop them. The mass roared with approval, jumping up and down with glee. Dean looked over at Ruby, who met his stare with a supporting one. He wanted to tell her he was only trying to please the people, but they both knew that wasn't true.

.o0o.

"Wake up, idiot, you need to wash your hair," Anna shook Castiel from his sleep. The room swayed as he sat up, and his puffy eyes felt as if they were being held closed.

"Is there coffee?" he asked, trying to shake himself awake.

"Oh, Cas," Anna sighed, "You know we can't afford that. Now wash up, we have to head down for the Reaping."

Castiel shuffled into the bathroom and ran the water. A murky beige liquid shot from the pipe. Two days ago it had been near black, so at least it was improving.

After an unreasonably long shower, Castiel was what could only be deemed "conscious". He wandered into the main room and sat on the floor next to Anna. She looked noticeably upset, holding a thin sheet of paper in her trembling hands.

"What's the matter?" he finally asked, looking over at her lovingly.

"I'm just, uh, worried about you. That's all," she mumbled. He voice was off in a way that Castiel assumed meant that she was lying.

"No," he said, going off his instincts, "You've never gotten this upset before."

A tear escaped Anna's strong eyes and slunk down her face. She crumpled the paper in her hands angrily and threw it against the opposite wall.

"I, ah, went to the doctor the other day," she started, her tears progressing into sobs, "And they – they told me I have it."

In District 5, "it" meant only one thing. It didn't matter if you work one day or fifty years, you got "it" eventually. Both of their parents had died from "it", and so had most of their extended family. You got "it" from working on the dangerous floors of the power plants where giant rooms of radioactive materials were built haphazardly with little care towards the citizens who had to work there. The wealthier residents could afford to treat "it", but the Novaks couldn't even afford the home they lived in.

Cancer.

"Are you sure?" Castiel said without emotion, looking at the colorless wall unwaveringly. He tried not to think about what it'd be like without her. He'd be alone and underage. A true orphan. He'd probably have to live in the streets.

"Yeah."

The siblings sat together for a while. It was the worst feeling he could imagine.

"We should get going," Anna broke the silence. They held hands as they walked to the town square.

.o0o.

Sam finished washing up, but it really didn't matter considering his only clothes were brown with sweat and grime. He almost considered dressing in his mining uniform, but even it was coated in a thin layer of coal.

"You know, you can borrow a shirt. I'm sure my dad wouldn't mind," Gabriel said as Sam returned to the shop. Sam smiled at the offer, but even Gabriel's father, who had a good three or four inches on his son, was at least a head shorter than he was.

"No thanks," he responded. He had seen plenty of tributes get called, and no one really looked clean when they went. But by the time they were in their chariots at the Capitol, they were transformed.

This was the second to last time his name was in the running, so he really didn't care. Even though he could barely afford food, he had never claimed tesserae. He would rather die hungry than be stabbed to death by a beefy tribute from District 1 or 2.

"You okay?" Gabriel asked, pulling Sam from his thoughts. Gabriel sat across from him, his hand on his bad leg.

"Yeah," Sam responded halfheartedly.

"Are you sure? I know what today means for you –"

Sam glared at Gabriel, shutting him up just in time. He was one of the only people close enough to Sam to know that Adam, the tribute who had died seventeenth in the 45th Hunger Games, had been his older brother. Adam, along with an estranged grandfather, had been Sam's only real family. He had always looked at Reaping Day as his brother's last living day.

"I'm fine," he asserted, mostly to convince himself of something he knew wasn't true.

.o0o.

At eleven everyone started to clear out of the party. The only people who stayed lounged in their chairs and started betting on who would die first, empty bottles in their overworked hands. Dean and Ruby left together, able to clear a path to the Reaping on their fame alone.

"May the odds be ever in your favor, Dean," Ruby said as they reached town square, "See you on the train."

She patted him on the shoulder and strode towards the line for girl's registration. Dean watched her go, suddenly crippled without Ruby by his side. Regardless of what the mentors said at career training, he was alone in this. He had no way of knowing what sort of person she'd become in the games.

He had no way of knowing what sort of person he'd become.

Dean stood with the other boys his age. Most of them hovered at least a foot away from him as if he had a disease they could catch. A smaller boy beside him was wheezing. He tried to focus on the sound rather than the hundreds of people that wanted nothing more than to see him stabbed to death.

This year's escort, Lucifer, was delivering a speech that had the crowd in stitches. Dean was sure they had already started broadcasting to the Capitol even though the Reaping technically didn't start for a few more minutes. Everyone in District 2 was well aware they were the Capitol's favorite. They even got the best escort.

In a few minutes, the video about the uprising was over. Dean stood strong, knowing the cameras would be on him in minutes and wouldn't be gone until he was dead. He looked to his father, who sat on the stage with the District's other victors. John had a thin smile on his face, like a father might have before their child's graduation or musical performance.

"Ladies first," Lucifer said with a grin, beginning to walk in slow motion towards the orb. Nobody paid attention to the name he pulled.

"I volunteer!" A small yet powerful voice rang out throughout the square the second the name was read.

Dean's head snapped to the side. The voice wasn't Ruby's. Ruby stood bemused with the other girls her age. There was an unspoken code regarding who would be that year's tribute. It was always those who graduated top of their class from the training school. That was him and Ruby.

And yet a very small girl was being led from the back of the crowd. She couldn't be more than thirteen. Her thick black hair was cut short like a boy's, leaving it to jet out in small tufts. She was clearly a townsperson, for he had never seen her in the Victors' Circle or the training center.

"No!" He saw Ruby mouth. Dean could only imagine what she was feeling at this very moment. She had lost her chance at fame to a little girl who probably wouldn't make it through the bloodbath.

"And what's your name, dear?" Lucifer asked delicately. As District 2's escort, he had never taken a tribute this young.

"Madu Boninite," she said, baring her strangely white teeth. Lucifer patted her shoulder, guiding her to the side. He smiled as wide as he could, trying to mask his confusion.

"Now, for the male tribute!" Lucifer said, stepping in front of Madu and reading yet another meaningless name.

"I volunteer!" Dean said a little too quickly, causing the other boys around him to jump. His father would kill him himself if someone volunteered in his place. He wondered what Ruby's parents would do.

As they dragged him up onstage, he looked over at Ruby. She was crying pretty heavily, crouched on the ground with a few other girls around her. Her entire life was just stolen by the random girl by his side, and now so was her only real friend.

"And what is your name, sir?" Lucifer asked, peppy as ever.

"Dean, Dean Winchester," he choked, staring down at the massive crowd. He knew he was no longer a person. He was a silly little plastic piece in the Gamemaker's game.

"Well there you have it, folks," Lucifer beamed, "District 2's tributes for the 51st Annual Hunger Games!"

.o0o.

"Goodbye, Cas," Anna said, adjusting his dress shirt and ruffling his already messy black hair.

"See you on the other side?" He asked quietly as he had the past five years.

Anna shook her head strongly, her eyes near tears.

"May the odds be ever in our favor."

And she was gone, molded into the mass that was the entire populous of District 5. Castiel stood lonely, looking around for someone he could stand with. He quickly registered and ran to the roped off section with the other boys his age.

Every fiber of his being hated being alone, but soon it'd be like this all the time. He looked into a nearby alley. Would he have to sleep there? Or would someone he knew take him in? The only people he knew he had met at work, and they all had their own families to look after. He had heard a few stories about one of the houses taking in kids, but they were mostly to work them to death or steal the money they did work for.

He thought back to school. At this point there was no chance he'd ever go back. Most of the kids dropped out to work, which as far as he could tell was unique to District 5. He supposed it was due to the amount of adults who became sick due to the work environment.

The adults like Anna.

Unlike the other boys his age, Castiel always watched the Capitol's film intently. For some reason, he took comfort in knowing why the world was the way it was. A part of him wished they showed it regularly, so that whenever he was walking home from a 32 hour shift he could see District 13 and know that he was blessed to even have a home to return to, to have a body that worked. At any moment the Capitol could take it away.

He didn't, however, pay any attention to the escort. He never did. They always changed, probably due to the smell that smothered District 5's city. Having lived there his entire life, he had never noticed it, but once when he was young he had overheard a Peacekeeper whine about vomiting in the alleyway due to the "putrid odor".

"Now for the good part!" the nameless escort shouted, walking towards the girl's ball.

Castiel looked over at the girls. Like everyone else in the district, they looked sick and exhausted, like the walking dead.

"Claire Lardeus!" The escort chimed, calling the death sentence of the first tribute. A small girl pushed her way to the stage unhappily, never breaking eye contact with what could only be her parents. She seemed well dressed and wide awake, suggesting that her family either managed one of the plants or had acquired wealth by some other means.

"Now for the boys!" the escort walked to the other glass ball quickly, a pleasant look on their forgettable face.

"Castiel Novak!"

Every face turned in his direction as he felt his stomach fly into his throat. Fear gripped him, holding him in place. He had watched the games with Anna every year, so he had seen what happened to the tributes who lacked prior training. He might as well walk up on stage and have them slit his throat now. At least he wouldn't have to be paraded around the Capitol like a slab of meat.

A boy behind Castiel pushed him forward. He stumbled through the crowd and up onto the stage. A small part of him wondered how unbelievably panicked he looked. When the other tributes watched this, they'd peg him as a weakling.

Was that a good thing?

He could barely hear the anthem play as the ceremony drew to a close. He looked for Anna's red hair, but couldn't find it in the endless sea of people.

At least he wouldn't have to live alone.

.o0o.

Sam and Gabriel walked together to the town square. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Sam noticed Gabriel's limp. It was getting much worse as of late. Soon, he'd be stuck behind the bar forever, the immobile and weak son of a shopkeeper. It was Sam's fault he was like that, and he'd never forgive himself.

There weren't many other seventeen-year-olds, but Sam knew most of the boys his age had taken out Tesserae since they were 12, so for once the odds actually were in his favor. He looked around at the others. All of them looked fearful and feeble. District 12 would be the laughing stock of Panem, just like it always was.

It didn't help that Haymitch could barely walk as he took his seat on the stage. He was the only person there to represent the District other than the mayor, who stuttered through his speech awkwardly. Everyone knew this was Haymitch's first year as a mentor, but no one had expected him to be so derailed already.

He pouted through the speech, looking over at Gabriel occasionally for support. The girl was called, an eighteen-year-old who Sam knew from school. She was nothing special, just your average girl from the Seam. Merrill George – that was her name.

"Now for the boys," the escort said reaching into the bowl, "Gabriel Callidus!"

Sam heard a squeak from his friend as the name was called. Gabriel's face was white and ashen, just like every other tribute that had ever been called. He tried to walk to the stage, but his limp wouldn't allow it. Instantly, Sam knew what he needed to do.

"I volunteer."

He stepped forward, attempting to look as proud and strong as possible. He knew how strange his actions were, but he didn't care. A thousand confused and stunned faces turned to him as he walked around Gabriel and made his way onto the stage.

Strategies flew into his head the second his feet started to move. With his appearance, he knew he couldn't get away with acting weak or unknowledgeable. Maybe if he pushed the fact that he was an orphan volunteer, the other tributes would just think of him as elaborately suicidal.

Was he?

No, he answered himself quickly. He just knew what was right and what was wrong, and sending in a boy with a family, a busted leg, and a life while a perfectly fit one who had no real reason to live sat and watched him die was wrong.

And so he took his spot on stage as one of District 12's only volunteer tributes.


	3. Goodbyes

As soon as the ceremony drew to a close, Dean was whisked away by a few rather large Peacekeepers. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the crowd's empty eyes watch him leave.

He was well aware that most of them believed that it was for the last time.

They held him in a small, overly embellished room near the train station. Once the Peacekeepers left, Dean felt as if a rock had been lifted off of his chest. Collapsing into a velvet armchair, Dean shoved his face into his broad hands, breathing in the smell of sand and stone that was distinctive of District 2. This was it; the Games had started. From this moment on, he was property.

There was no turning back.

Dean knew what his father would say during their final meeting. They would go over tactics and battle strategies, just like every other day. Their meeting would be a time of instruction, not one of love or compassion.

But when the doors first opened, it wasn't John who stumbled in. None other than Ruby wandered through the large stone doors, her eyes still swollen and red from her earlier crying.

"Ruby?" Dean asked, still hunched over in his chair. He stood to meet her, but she shoved him back down.

"Ok, listen up," she started, her inflamed eyes surprisingly frightening, "You win, Winchester, and you do anything to do it! You do it for me, got it?"

Dean stuttered at his threatening friend. He had always thought that she would win, so now that he was alone he had no idea what to think. Instead, he just sat there and watched her ramble on.

"I-I," he eventually tried to respond, but the words he wanted to say just didn't flow.

"Yes, you!" she shouted back, cutting off his incomplete thought. "Now I'll see you after the Games, ok? And you will be alive and well, got it?"

Ruby left without another word. She did, however, pause by the door and turn for one last look. That one look, empty yet so full of regret, said everything Dean had wanted so desperately to hear from his father. She truly cared about him, even if she wouldn't show it.

"Thanks, Ruby."

He sat for a few minutes in the chair, a bit shaken by the emotional experience he hadn't expected to have. Breathing heavily, he tried to calm himself. The career tributes always looked the calmest, and he wasn't about to be the exception.

"Dean!" John burst through the doors, sending a decorative table and the countless fragile items on top of it onto the floor with a terrifying crash. Dean was on his feet in seconds like a soldier ready for battle.

That was always what he was, wasn't it?

"A little fidgety up on stage, weren't we?" his father said in a disappointed tone, his heavy black eyebrows arching unsympathetically. "Make sure not to do it again."

Dean felt his stomach sink. Managing to keep a straight face, he stood through his father's comments. This was likely the last time he would ever see him, so he fought the undeniable urge to talk back.

"Now, remember what we said? Stay with the other careers until you're close to the end, but spend that time learning their weaknesses, okay? If you let yourself think somebody might be too much for you, you'll never win, you hear me, son?"

Dean stared unwaveringly at the far wall, responding with a stiff nod. He knew he couldn't look into his father's eyes. Not again.

"And remember, son," he said, patting him on the shoulder as he turned to leave, "The Gamemakers love a violent killer."

.o0o.

Castiel was held in the town's City Hall for his goodbyes. He had never been in a building other than his apartment and the power plant, so the decadence was surprising. A sliver of what he could only assume was fresh air wafted out of a small vent in the ceiling, filling the room with a heaven-like aroma. Hypnotized by the smell, Castiel pulled a thin metallic chair over and climbed to get closer to it.

Taking in a single deep breath, Castiel imagined what it was going to be like at the Capitol. From what he had gathered through the past Games he had watched, it not only had much, much cleaner air than District 5, but was completely and totally pristine.

Captivated by the smell, he didn't even notice Anna wander in the thick metal door.

"Cas, are you trying to escape?" she asked mockingly, causing him to almost fall off the chair. "Because I don't think you'll fit through that vent."

As he turned to meet her, he was quickly overcome by her embrace. While they were a relatively close family, Anna had never hugged him like she did now. It seemed to last forever. Eventually, he felt a small damp spot form just below his shoulder. She was sobbing, and although he hadn't noticed it at first, he was too.

"I – I guess that's the end of the Novaks, huh?" she said into his shoulder, refusing to pull away for even one second. Castiel held her long orange hair in his hand one last time.

"Yes, I guess it is," he responded solemnly.

Within seconds, Peacekeepers burst into the room and pulled the two apart.

"Time's up," one grumbled.

Castiel watched his older sister go quietly.

At least he wouldn't have to be alone much longer.

.o0o.

Sam walked very slowly, a wall of Peacekeepers surrounding him. None of his guides measured up to his six-foot-five frame. Had Sam been chosen rather than volunteered, he probably would have tried to overpower them. But he had volunteered, and he knew who they would send into the arena if he was killed escaping.

He hoped that no one would come to see him go, but he knew that wouldn't be the case. Dread plagued his mind as he realized who would most likely want to see him off.

As he had anticipated, Gabriel followed him into the room, relying on his cane to walk on his own.

"You idiot!" He shouted up at Sam, hitting him lightly with the walking stick. Sam turned to defend himself, but was thrown off by Gabriel's shockingly depressing expression.

"How do you function, you are so stupid!" Gabriel continued, his eyes on the brink of tears, "Why the Hell did you do that?"

Sam looked down at his friend with a soft smile.

"I owed you one," Sam said gently. "Plus, it wouldn't be fair, what with your leg."

Gabriel shook his head angrily, making a small mumbling noise as he did.

"The Capitol doesn't care about fair!" was all Gabriel could retaliate, balling his fists in rage.

"I know that," Sam placed his hands on Gabriel's shoulders, holding him in place, "but in my situation I can't think of a better way to spend my life."

Gabriel rolled his head back and laughed sarcastically, tugging his way out of Sam's grasp.

"Living is always the best way to spend your life!" he spat, his unparalleled anger burning in his eyes.

Sam tried his hardest to keep his smile. His friend had a point.

"Then you live, Gabe," he finally said, playfully poking his friend in the shoulder, "You take over your family's business and live a nice long life with a wife and maybe even a few kids. You never would have made it, but I can. I honestly think I can win this."

And Sam finished his speech with a lie.


	4. Arrival

For Castiel, stepping onto the train was like falling into another dimension. The smell – or lack thereof – was so fresh that it almost knocked him off of his scruffy feet.

"You okay, kid?" the voice of one of the district's victors appeared behind him, guiding him farther into the train. He was elderly, but he had the playful grin of someone much younger.

"Yeah," Castiel responded, his throat unaccustomed to talking in such an empty atmosphere.

"It's okay if you aren't," the man continued, "You'd be a bit strange if you were."

Castiel forced a thin smile, noticing that the man had meant to be humorous. What with the mixture of new air and the fear that was still ravaging every inch of his body, he knew he couldn't spare a laugh. Instead, he pulled his long coat closer to his body, the city's smell still embedded in its tan cloth.

"My name's Zachariah, son," the man said as he pushed past him, "and if you can fake a smile this close to your Reaping, you've got potential. See you at the Capitol."

Now alone, Castiel stood in the main car. Beautiful decorations coated every inch of every surface, shining brightly in every color imaginable. His eyes darted around the room, unable to choose just one thing to focus on. Culture shock, that's what they called it. Plenty of tributes in the past had talked about it during their interviews as a way to suck up to the Capitol's pampered citizens, but he had never truly grasped the concept until now.

The room was spinning as he grew more and more lightheaded. Every thought and feeling seemed to rush at him all at once, bombarding his uncultured mind. As a tribute, he was dead, and this room, this décor, was the light he was following to the end of the tunnel. Stumbling to find a surface to lean on, the room began to twirl faster and faster around him.

"Castiel?" a hand grabbed a hold of his shoulder and gave it a light shake, succeeding in bringing him to his senses for a short moment.

Castiel looked up and found himself staring into the rather large eyes of Claire Lardeus, the female tribute. Her long straight hair had fallen into her still young, plump face, giving her an even more innocent look than the one she had worn at the Reaping.

"It helps to breathe slowly," she hummed, her voice still a bit rigid from youth.

He did as she said, focusing on the rate of his breathing rather than his surroundings. Eventually, he was able to stand on his own, his ability to see straight returned.

"Thanks," he breathed, not really sure if he wanted her to hear. It didn't matter how kind they were to each other now, they would have to watch each other die regardless the friendship they formed.

"It's not a problem," she said, beginning to turn away.

"How old are you, anyways?" Castiel heard himself ask. Like always, his curiosity got the best of him. He would never be the type to suffer through a job without asking an unnecessary question on a random whim.

"I'll be fourteen in a few weeks." Her words were bittersweet. They both knew she'd be dead by then. "You?"

"Sixteen," Castiel mumbled. He had three years on the girl, and judging by her dress and general cleanliness, a lifetime of experiences.

He shook away the thoughts. How could he be standing here with a young, innocent girl plotting how easily it would be to best her?

"I have a brother that age," she was clearly attempting to continue the conversation, but Castiel couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand knowing she was going to die.

Knowing he was going to die.

"I'm going to go to sleep," he said gruffly, walking away promptly with his coat billowing in the wind, leaving the young girl all alone.

.o0o.

Sam spent most of his journey in the dining car. At first he had attempted to distance himself from everything "Capitol", but the sweet smell of pastries quickly chipped away at any of his preconceived plans.

When he first gave in to the food, it was like falling into heaven. Sweet candies and rich meats littered the room, exciting his taste buds in a way he never could have imagined. He knew his malnourished stomach couldn't take the amount food he was ingesting, but the hunger was too much. For years, he had lived off what little he could gather in the forest, barely able to walk straight due to his body's lack of natural energy. Now he had hundreds of meals to choose from all at once, and nobody but himself to stop him.

He was on his sixth plate when it finally hit him. The nausea came and went quickly as he vomited on a nearby potted plant. A part of him wanted to keep eating, but at this point he knew better. He forced himself out of the room, leaving his mess behind.

Maybe if he thought of it as a "screw you" to the Capitol he'd be able to later justify his actions.

.o0o.

As the train arrived at the Capitol, Dean stood at one of the many rectangular windows that lined each car. The Capitol was just how he had imagined it, a large, bustling city full of strange looking people in even stranger looking outfits. He stared out at the landscape, desperately looking for some sort of building or object to tie this strange place to his home, but he could not. He was in a new world now.

"Right this way, dear. This car has the largest windows," he heard Lucifer say as the car doors blew open. Madu followed in and hurriedly plastered herself to the window next to Dean, looking up at him as she did.

"Hello, Dean Winchester," she said as she gazed up at him with her deep black eyes. Dean couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about those eyes that wasn't quite right.

"Hey," Dean responded as casually as possible, raising his eyebrows from their nearly permanently stern position. He still wasn't sure if he was going to follow through with his original plan and ally with her as he would have with Ruby. She was far too young for a career. When he was her age, he had only just learned how to use a short sword, and yet here she was competing against him.

And just like that, an eerie thought crept into Dean's mind. Most of the other tributes probably didn't even know how to use any of the weapons properly, and almost all of him would be younger than he was. This wouldn't be like training where he took down past victors and experienced fighters, this was the real thing. He stood astonished by the realization. How was it that he had spent his entire life training for one event, but he hadn't even considered what exactly that event entailed?

"You seem a little frightened for a career," Madu stated coolly, reminding Dean of her presence. He turned to look at her again, still a bit disturbed by the bizarre light in her eyes. She didn't look like a person, but rather an animal stalking her soon-to-be kill.

"No, I'm just anxious around crowds," Dean responded, making sure his tone remained strong and unwavering. He had always expected that he and Ruby would have the train ride to stifle their worries together, but that had been thrown out the window the second Madu had shouted out her name at the Reaping.

"Then try not to think about how many people you're being broadcast to," she murmured. She was trying to scare him, and she clearly didn't care how bluntly she approached it.

"We're almost ready to get off the train. Do you two want to follow me or would you like to stay by the window for a few more minutes?" Lucifer interjected, fastening a large red rose onto his strikingly white suit.

Dean looked away from the young girl and clenched his jaw. If he stayed at the window he'd have the chance to gain more Capitol supporters, but if went he'd be able to have a few more minutes away from this strange little girl.

"I'll go now."

"Me too!" Madu said, smiling happily like she had just received an extremely expensive gift. Dean sighed, his attempt to avoid her a failure. Lucifer led the pair towards the doors as the train slowed to a stop.

"It's about to get very loud, but I don't think it's anything either of you can't handle," he chuckled, grabbing a hold of the door's large handle and pulling up sharply.

A wall of sound hit Dean head on. What looked like every citizen of the Capitol was standing around the station eagerly anticipating their arrival. Shouts and cheers filled the air as the two were led by the Capitol's favorite escort.

"Kill them all!"

"Bloody is better!"

"Continue the Winchester legacy!"

Dean tried to look at every face, keeping his broad smile as he did. This was his chance to campaign for fan favorite, and it wasn't going to be easy. Madu was standing next to him, waving frantically in every direction. She was a relatively cute child, so she already had the sympathy fans and their money secured.

Trying to siphon off some of her playful energy, Dean wrapped his arm around her neck and messed up her short hair with his fist as one would do to a younger brother. While she squirmed at first, she relaxed as his actions sent the crowd into an overjoyed frenzy.

"You're better at this than I thought, Winchester," she hissed up at him.

"I've had training."


	5. Faces and Names

Unlike Madu, Dean finished his appointment at the Remake Center early, and for once he was happy that his father's overzealous approach had finally paid off.

"Just be back here for your costume in about forty-five minutes, okay, sweetie?"

Thus far, the best perk that came with being a career was the trust. Without the fear that he'd attempt to escape (or worse), he was allowed to wander the halls unchaperoned. It was probably the only good thing about the Games.

The building they were being held in was unnaturally large and resembled what could only be described as a maze. He wondered if it was meant to prevent his escape, or if it was simply another example of the Capitol's outlandish customs.

Dean rounded one of the many corners and was instantly startled by a scruffy looking man. The man was clearly less composed than he was, for he leapt into the air at his arrival.

"Dean!" he shouted, surprised, "Dean, from District 2!"

Dean stood silently. He had never seen this fidgety man before in his life. It occurred to him that a lot of people he didn't know knew his name now, but this man didn't look anything like the typical avid fans of the Games. In fact, he seemed completely out of place; his brown hair and wrinkled suit oddly commonplace for a Capitol resident.

"Oh," he said, noticing Dean's silence, "You don't recognize me."

The man shoved his shaking hand into his jacket pocket, producing an excessively ornate flask. Taking a swig greedily, he extended it towards Dean.

"I'm sure you want some, too," he chuckled awkwardly. "It's a little strong, but you get used to it after a couple of drinks."

Dean looked down at the alcohol with a powerful yearning. It would be so much easier to board the chariots later if he knew he wouldn't remember it.

"Look, man," he responded against his will, pushing it back, "I don't think I should."

"Don't worry," the man said, either tipsy or paranoid, "If I say you can, you can."

Dean smirked as the man crumpled into the wall, his shaggy hair deflating in an almost unrealistic way.

"I'm sure you have that sort of authority," he laughed sarcastically.

"I do!" he insisted, "The Head Gamemaker can do anything."

His father would have been ashamed of how poorly Dean reacted. A small squeak was all his body was able to produce as his face turned pallid.

"You?" he eventually managed to choke out.

"What do you mean me?" he sounded a bit offended, but remained as casual as he had been before his reveal. Dean figured it was the rapidly worsening intoxication.

"You seem so –" Dean drifted off, not wanting to offend the man further. In a few days, his life would be in this man's shaky hands.

"So what?" the Gamemaker giggled, "So scruffy? So plain? So nice?"

He over annunciated his last word as if it was meant as an insult, taking another few gulps from his flask and sinking farther down the wall.

"Listen, kid," he mumbled drunkenly, "I've got to go give my big speech and stuff, so you better get back to your stylists."

The man, flinging his body away from his crumpled position, stumbled down the hall, turning back for just a second.

"Just so you know, my name's Carver. Carver Edlund," he hiccuped, "But my friends call me Chuck."

"Okay, Chuck." Dean smiled as fondly as he could.

"It's Carver."

And the man who held his life in his hands drunkenly saluted him and disappeared around the corner.

**.o0o.**

Sam had never imagined anything as painful and degrading as being plucked and prodded by the stylists at the Remake Center. Choruses of "tsks" and "humphs" echoed throughout the small, colorless, and sterile room as the hours slowly increased. The only point when Sam felt even remotely human was when a younger female stylist had blushed at his surprisingly thick arms.

He wondered if these people worked this job every year – dressing people up to die. He couldn't imagine it, knowing that the person you chatted with today would be dead tomorrow. All but one of the tributes fit that scenario, and he probably wasn't going to be the exception. A small, bitter laugh escaped his lips.

Probably.

"All done, kid," one of the stylists said as they zipped up another variation of District 12's trademark coal miner's uniform and patted him lightly on the back. As a worker in the mines, he found the outfit's cartoonish style offensive. The costume was just another reason to hate the Capitol, for the Capitol clearly had no respect for the hundreds of men - and boys - who spent hours a day toiling deep underground.

Sam was then led by the stylists down to where he'd board the chariot. He stood sullenly by District 12's cart, watching the other tributes bustle about in their grand outfits. Most of them – excluding only the careers – looked terrified.

He wondered if he did, too. At this point, Sam was fully unaware of what emotions he was feeling and what he was portraying. Those details couldn't matter anymore.

Turning to look away from the others, Sam found himself face to face with none other than Haymitch Abernathy, who was looking surprisingly sober. He had known Haymitch for as long as he could remember. When they were younger, they had been the sort of friends who tolerated rather than enjoyed one another. Haymitch had always been the sarcastic goofball, whereas Sam tried his hardest to remain on his teachers' "good sides". Naturally, it was hard for them to get along.

From what Sam could remember from silly classroom birthday celebrations, Haymitch only had a month or two on him, and yet his face appeared worn and hard. If Sam had been forced to guess the man's age without his prior knowledge, he would probably put him in his early thirties. Was this what the games did to people? Turned them into wreaked, aged drunkards?

"Let's talk for a bit", he said, a harsh smile painted on Haymitch's still handsome face.

"What are we going to be talking about?" Sam asked, leaning against the large wooden chariot.

"You," Haymitch answered simply, "Why'd you do it? Volunteer, I mean?"

Sam wasn't sure how to respond to his one and only mentor. He had his reason, but he knew Haymitch would be unimpressed by his generally stupid martyrdom. At the last moment, he decided to be truthful.

"My friend, Gabriel, he was the boy who was called first. He's crippled –" Sam told the floor, "because of me."

"Ah, so it's a guilty mind, Sammy," Haymitch guessed, more accepting than Sam had expected.

"I go by Sam," he interjected, eager to change the subject, "and I'm sorry about what happened outside the Distillery."

It was Haymitch's turn to stare at the perfectly polished floor in disgrace, his overgrown hair shifting to cover his eyes. The frown that overtook his face was neither sad nor embarrassed, but merely disappointed at what the memory meant.

"What would you have to be sorry about? Not contributing to my public drunkenness? Two years ago, I wouldn't have given me anything, either. I'm a rich bastard who doesn't need the help of kids like you," a hint of anger flared in Haymitch's borderline sarcastic voice.

"You know we're the same age."

The two boys stood in silence for a few moments, a thick atmosphere forming around them.

"I'm going to help you, Sam," Haymitch stated randomly, his frown disappearing, "I'm getting lonely in the Victor's Circle, and you'd make a nice neighbor."

The Victor's face never quite reached a grin, but the look was still happier than Sam ever imagined Haymitch's haunted face could portray. Sam smiled softly at Haymitch's attempt at kindness. Maybe in another world they could have been better friends.

**.o0o.**

Castiel stood in his glowing blue suit, staring unblinkingly at the other tributes. He was surprised by the amount of tributes that were clearly younger than him. Both of the kids from District 3 were extremely small, and the boy from 8 appeared childish enough that he wouldn't have seemed out of place in kindergarten. He looked down at Claire, who was leaning against the chariot, trembling uncontrollably. She was only thirteen.

"Do you like your costume?" she said, noticing his stare.

He wasn't sure how to answer. When his stylist had told him about his long sleeved, long legged leotard, he hadn't exactly been thrilled. It was skin tight and incredibly uncomfortable, bulging in all the places people generally don't want to bulge.

It wasn't until one of the stylists told him about how the suit was made to shine brighter the longer he wore it or the warmer it got that he seemed even remotely interested in it. After a few minutes, it had risen to a low glow, beaming the same deep blue color as his eyes. Now it was almost like a beacon, casting beautiful shadows on the bright white stallions that were to lead their chariots.

"Sort of."

Claire shook her head, agreeing with him. Her suit was a rosy pink like her cheeks, which was probably more stunning than his was. Her hair, long and blonde, was pulled back in a tight bun with bright pink streaks running through it. He had to admit that their stylists knew what they were doing.

"Kids!" Zachariah jogged towards them, a false smile on his aging face.

Castiel sighed. While he was happy to be surrounded by so many people, there was something off about Zachariah, something he really did not like.

"Ok, let's have a little pow-wow, gather round," he didn't give them a choice as he wrapped his arms around both of them and dragged them into his loose embrace.

Castiel looked over at Claire. She looked even more averse to Zachariah that he did. They exchanged a quick smile, but they were soon interrupted.

"I'm going to tell you one thing and one thing only," he started, shaking them as he talked, "You must get sponsors, and nobody wants to give money to a grumpy Gus, now do they? I would normally suggest that you two should become ruthless killing machines, but since both of you look like you could model in a children's magazine, I don't see it happening that way. So smile, or you might as well kill yourselves now."

Castiel gulped as the tragedy of his situation became just a bit clearer. He might as well.

"So go out there and show me some teeth!" Zachariah threw them forward into the cart.

"He's not very nice," Claire giggled, her innocence rather charming. In the back of Castiel's mind, he wondered if Claire was able to comprehend the fear she was meant to feel. He answered himself quickly, for he knew every child in Panem understood fear.

Castiel smiled weakly and nodded, returning to his earlier observations, this time trying to ignore the ages of the people he watched. The tributes from Districts 1 and 2 were chatting like they were old friends catching up after years of separation. One of them was much younger, but the rest of them looked at least seventeen.

One of them, a boy from District 2, stood out to Castiel. He had a booming laugh that carried throughout the large room. How could someone laugh so fiercely at a time like this? The boy looked his way, his brow furrowing at the sight of his wandering blue eyes. Without hesitation, Castiel quickly averted his gaze.

He wondered for a second if that boy would be the one to kill him.

**.o0o.**

"The male tribute from District 5 is watching us," Madu said as if she were continuing their conversation, "Don't look."

Dean stood with the other careers. For some reason, the tributes from District 4 weren't with them. A part of his mind was happy that he'd have to side with less people, but the small, untrained and empathetic part knew something was wrong.

More wrong than a giant death match involving mere children? He thought to himself with a depressed smirk.

Madu had meshed with the others better than Dean had expected. Her face was much less terrifying now that she had been "remade", but she still had that unmistakable glow in her eyes that, despite an age difference of nearly six years, sent shivers down his spine.

The girl from District 1, Lace, didn't seem as unnerving. She seemed a bit quiet and introverted, but she made up for it with her astonishing beauty and rare yet mesmerizing voice. Even though Dean knew this quiet behavior should be considered normal for someone in their situation, he could still hear his father's voice in the back of his head scolding her poor, nonstrategic actions.

The boy from District 1, Michael, stood stronger than anyone Dean had ever seen in his years at the District 2 Training Center. Unmovable and devoid of recognizable emotion, he boy was like a cold, stone statue. He measured a few inches shorter than Dean, but he made up for the height difference in the inches that supported his excessively wide shoulders.

"Is he at all intimidating?" Michael asked her, "I haven't actually looked at him. Kids from five are rarely something to worry about."

"No, not at all," she scoffed with a short grunting laugh. "He looks like a shopkeeper!"

The other careers laughed, and so Dean did. He knew these people were his only chance at survival. Nothing bonded a group like laughter - especially when the games get to the final stages, the Training Center had taught him that.

"I think he's looking at you, Dean," she said, finally averting her razor-sharp gaze from him.

Dean couldn't help but look over at the orb of blue light. He squinted. Why did this guy get such a cool costume when he was painted to look like a marble statue, just like every other year?

"Do you know his name?" Dean couldn't stop his curiosity.

"No, I try not to remember the names of the people I'm going to kill."

Dean didn't bother assigning the comment to a specific voice. He just listened as the careers laughed again, this time without him.


	6. Fans and Fights

Trying his hardest to keep his heart rate steady, Dean boarded the golden chariot. His bare chest was heaving, and he knew the crowd would notice if he didn't calm down. Ugh. He tried not to think about the crowd. It would be the largest one he had ever witnessed, and he would be at the center of it. He was their focus. His hands began to shake at the realization that this crowd - this meaningless crowd - and the one from the Reaping were just stepping stones. Sure, he wouldn't be able to see the hundreds of thousands of faces watching him once the Games actually started, but he knew they'd be there.

"You okay, Winchester? You look like you're going to throw up," Madu snickered.

Waves of nausea rocked him. Was he going to throw up? No. Vomit was a body's way of releasing something, and he knew that was impossible right now – the pressure was too much. There was no way anything could escape him, not steady breaths, not even vomit.

When he was young, Dean used to sneak out of class and run off into the hills that surrounded the village just for the solitude they offered; just so that for a moment he could escape pressure's hands and breathe. His father always exploded at him when he returned home, but even a few minutes in the hills was worth it. As his father yelled and screamed, he would fantasize a world where he could go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted. Closing his eyes, he forced himself there.

"No, I'm fine."

The music began with a single blaring note, startling him to the core. Gripping the front of the chariot, he watched District 1 roll away; their costumes' many rhinestones catching the light from every angle.

"Break a leg," Madu smiled creepily, "See you on the other side."

The cart lurched forward as the horses broke into a steady trot. Within seconds, they were launched into a roaring sea of applause. Dean could feel the false smile on his face and the welcoming glimmer his father had taught him flooding into his eyes, but he had no control over them. His mind flying faster than ever before, he waved anxiously in every direction. It wasn't healthy – the speed of his thoughts and the strength of his concentration – but the sound of his father's voice echoing throughout the inside of his skull shouted otherwise. His life might as well rest on this very moment.

"Dean! Dean! Dean!" he could hear his name chanted through the havoc. It sounded volumes louder than every other noise, a beacon in the storm. People were rooting for him, their favorite. A surge of joy and acceptance unlike any he had ever felt surged throughout his body. He was caught up in the Game, and he knew it. The fame. The popularity. The sound of his name was finally enough to corrupt him.

Madu punched him playfully in the shoulder, reminding him of where he was. He allowed himself to laugh with her for a minute, making sure to act as if they were above the crowd. The people of the Capitol love a tribute whose attention had to be earned, his father had always said.

But don't act like a spoiled brat.

As the chariot came to a stop, Dean and Madu simultaneously threw their arms into the air in triumph, sending a shockwave through the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a multitude of large rainbow dresses and bright suits leaping out of their chairs as if they were red hot.

For once, he felt as if his father would be proud of him. The nausea didn't settle.

**.o0o.**

The ceremony was exactly the same as it had always been, although this year Sam had a much different view. Every year, he and Gabriel would watch the Chariot rides together on the small beat-up television in the Distillery. It was a nice excuse to spend extended amounts of time there without feeling like he was imposing. Like everyone else in District 12, they would openly mock the Capitol's fashion and culture, but deep down in Sam's empty stomach he envied them. What was it like, spending so much time on lavish things like outrageous hair and makeup when he had to spend hours fighting for a meal?

His cart came to a stop before the president's home. How could one man live in a house like that? He had seen it on TV towering over the giant buildings of the Capitol, but it was different in person. Sam felt like an ant, ready to be crushed by plaster and stone. Even District 12's largest building, the Justice Building, would be swallowed whole by this beast of a building.

He could hear various names as they were chanted by the crowd. Judging by the dazed faces of the career tributes, he assumed it was for them. No matter how hard he focused, Sam couldn't hear his name. To them, he was just another miner from District 12; he might as well be the ghost of a previous tribute. Of course he would die a nameless face.

Just like his brother.

President Snow arrived and delivered a disgustingly loquacious speech about the games. There was something inherently frightening about Snow, but naturally there had to be. Sam picked at the cheap blue fabric that the stylists claimed was usual for a miner's uniform. When was this just going to end?

Suddenly, his chariot lurched forward once more, answering his question. The return journey was much less interesting, for the crowd completely worn by their intense applause for the careers. Releasing the air he had held captive in his petrified lungs, they finally pulled into the Remake Center.

This part of the journey was over.

The tributes leapt out of their chariots, cheeks flushed with joy and adrenalin.

"Did you hear them? They were chanting my name!" Sam heard the little boy from District 4 say, a smile plastered on his stereotypically underage face.

A frustrated "yeah" was all the girl of`fered as a response. She was clearly a career, her thick hair pulled back by a seashell pin, exposing her harsh, tortured face. She patted the boy on the back, leading him from the room. That's strange, Sam thought. Careers were typically nice to each other, but not to people outside of their circle. And this boy - this child - he was no career.

Suddenly, the boy's fish-like costume caught on his bare feet, dragging him to the floor with a clatter. Every face in the room turned to the boy, a few giggles echoing off the high walls. Sam jogged over to the boy, trying to suffocate his general dislike of the upper districts.

"Are you alright?" he asked, squatting to help him.

"Uh, yeah," the boy answered, looking to the girl from his district for support. He clearly didn't understand why Sam was helping him. To be fair, Sam hardly did, either.

What a horrible place, the Capitol. Was it really so strange that he, a tribute from District 12, may help a young boy who had potentially hurt himself?

Yes.

"I'm Sam," he added, helping the boy to his feet. "Sam Wesson."

"What game are you playing?" the girl said aggressively, stepping between Sam and the boy.

"I was just helping him up," Sam stated defensively, throwing his hands up as he took a single step back.

The girl flared her nostrils as she watched Sam inquisitively. Eventually, her face relaxed a bit.

"I'm Maria Featherfin, and this is Rod. I'd enjoy it if you left us alone from now on."

And the two walked away, Maria leading Rod in perfect synchronization. Sam felt strange as the realization hit him. He had walked that way with Adam before he had been reaped. They were siblings.

**.o0o.**

The tall boy from District 12 watched the two tributes from District 4 walk away, completely unaware of Castiel's prying eyes.

"What's up with that?" Claire asked jokingly, her eyes wandering in the same direction as his.

Castiel shrugged. What was that boy doing, treating them like that? Was he strategizing, or was he merely the one truly selfless person here? Castiel knew the latter had to be false, even though the boy's large eyes were wide with apparent sorrow. No one was nice here, especially someone who volunteered. To do that he would have to be nuts – nuts or suicidal. It had to be nuts, looking at the boy's size. No one that thin would go to such lengths just to kill himself. All they had to do was go one more day without a meal.

Castiel's stomach growled at the thought of starvation. He yearned to return to his sweet smelling room and sink into the mountains of food that littered the shelves and tables.

"Let's go," Claire intervened, noticing his vacant expression. Claire patted his shoulder as she walked away, and he hesitantly followed. Within a few days of these informal interactions, they'd be friends. Did he want that? He knew he'd die, but did he want to see another person he cares about go, too?

Of course not.

Claire passed by the careers quickly, brushing past the boy from District 1, Michael, as she went.

"Watch where you're going, fatty," he said, inches away from spitting in her face. Under different circumstances, he probably would have slapped her, but fighting was forbidden among tributes. Michael turned to the other careers, a lax grin on his face. "People like her are why I started training in the first place."

"Hey!" Castiel shouted before he could stop himself.

A look of amused rage on his frightening face, Michael turned to face him. Castiel immediately regretted his interjection.

"Are you talking to me?" Michael yelled. Castiel couldn't tell if he was acting surprised or if he actually was.

"Yes," he responded as sturdily as he could, his hand shaking with every syllable.

Michael threw his head back and cackled loudly, the noise bouncing off of every surface.

"Kid, I can take you down in a second."

Castiel didn't doubt the ability to do so, but Michael – being the bully he was – needed to demonstrate. He flew at Castiel, his beefy arm around his neck before he even had time to be afraid.

"And snap," Michael growled into his ear huskily, pretending to break Castiel's neck.

"Lay off him, Michael."

A new, deeper voice joined the mix. Castiel looked up from Michael's embrace to see the boy from District 2, Dean Winchester. Unlike the other careers, Dean's expression looked inviting rather than terrifying, despite the anger that surged through his voice.

"Are you going to stop me, Winchester?" Michael challenged, tightening his grip on Castiel until it was almost painful.

"Yeah, I will," Dean answered, crossing his arms menacingly. "He isn't worth it."

Reluctantly returning to his group, Michael released Castiel with a grunt. Dean waited until he was gone before turning back to the glowing boy.

"I'd go," he continued in his rugged,enraged tone, "and I'd stay away."


	7. Alliances

Yet again, Dean sprung out of bed, the thick sheets pooling at his ankles. Of all of the objects in the Capitol, the blankets were the only ones that didn't best those from his home district. His father had ordered those blankets from a specialty plant in District 8 when he started training.

"Be happy," he had said, carelessly tossing the unwrapped gift onto his son's lap, "From now on, I'll only buy you weapons."

The sheets clinging to his ankles possessed no such kindness. They were simply shackles.

He tried to suffocate the thoughts as he pulled himself out of bed. Today, he and the other tributes started group training, and since he came from a district with an abundance of victors willing to come and train, he had no idea which one of his neighbors were going to be there to support him. A few days before the Reaping, he had asked Bobby Singer, the victor of the 23rd Hunger Games, to come. Considering he wasn't overjoyed by Dean's participation in the games, Bobby had been hesitant, but Dean had made a rather compelling argument.

"You could be the difference between my life and death," he had argued blatantly. Bobby had never responded, but rather, taking another swig of his whiskey, stared silently at the wall. Since Bobby's wife had died, he had fallen into the same pitiful routine as every other victor: one of alcohol and loneliness. Dean had filled some sort of hole in Bobby's life, acting as a surrogate son while Bobby worked as a substitute father. Both of them knew that if he died in the games, Bobby would have no one.

Pulling his feet from the shackles and shoving them into another, Dean dressed quickly in the training gear that had been laid out for him. District 2 had a reputation to uphold, and it involved being early and intimidating. He had to convince the other tributes that the careers were far from nervous. However, as Dean faced himself in the mirror, he knew it was a lie. While he was able to maintain a hard and threatening face, his deep green eyes exposed his faked composition.

Today, he would be forced to see what he was up against. Sure, he knew that the tributes from District 1 (and maybe even 4) would have nearly the same training as him – if not more. But even if they were more equipped than him, at least he knew they'd be on his side. It was the other kids that were the wild cards. Through watching past games in the large viewing center his father had built into his basement, Dean had come to realize that anyone, no matter how young or frail they may seem, could become a lethal killing machine if provoked. Those were the kids he had to worry about. Those were the kids he'd have to identify today.

Meeting the obviously lethal Madu in the hallway, Dean was surprised to see her hair gelled back like a miniature white-collar man. Normally, trainers would suggest that tributes dress as natural as possible. Once in the games, she wouldn't have that gel to hold back her wisps of black hair. He wondered if it would actually hurt her when the time came. Wondered, and hoped.

Together, they went silently to the training rooms. The building was designed in a similar fashion as the one in District 2, only his didn't have an elevator. He had ridden in one before when he was young. His father had taken him on a tour of the stone mines, it was a day he'd never forget. To say he hated the machines would be a terrible understatement. An enclosed space propelling in one direction, held up by only a series of detachable chords – that was scary. If someone came at him with a knife or axe, then at least the situation was in his hands. He could defend himself. If this contraption broke, then there was nothing he could do but plummet to his demise.

It was eight when they finally arrived at the main room, almost two hours before they're supposed to. They, as expected, were first. Two large "2"s were pinned to their backs.

"Ah, just wait around," the head trainer said with a smile, "You technically aren't allowed to touch anything until everyone is here, but I'm sure you have some strategizing to do."

She winked and walked away, leaving Dean alone with the five-foot menace.

"I wonder what the arena will be," Madu asked, sounding so childish she almost came off as friendly. Dean hadn't really thought about the arena, he had been too preoccupied with the people and cameras that followed him everywhere. He and his father had trained for almost every terrain and climate imaginable, even spending a good deal of time an arctic-style room at his training center.

"It could be anything," he mumbled ominously. It really could, what with it being the first year after the Quarter Quell. The Hunger Games were meant to be entertaining, so they had to live up to the previous year. But then again, there was a chance it wouldn't be the arena that was special, but rather the weapons or creatures.

Digging his hands into his knees and hunching his broad shoulders, Dean looked at the many stations in the large room. Any of the things in this room could be there. Any one of these things could kill him.

**.o0o.**

A small jolt of pain shot up Castiel's back as the large "5" was pinned carelessly onto it. Most of the tributes had arrived simultaneously, the only exceptions being the four careers that seemed to have been there for hours. Fearful, he stayed on the opposite side of the group and avoided their eye contact. He didn't want to repeat yesterday's events, especially considering that in this setting Michael could probably justify going much farther than a demonstration.

The tributes were called together to discuss the day's events. It was the first time Castiel was able to see all of the tributes without their ridiculous costumes. The careers looked unbelievably threatening, their nearly skintight outfits highlighting their bulging muscles and illuminating their harsh and darkened faces. In contrast, the rest of the tributes looked awkward and gawky. In the crowd, Castiel was drawn to the boy from 12. Clearly consumed with whatever was going on in his mind, he appeared severely depressed. The boy was one good actor.

A woman began to list the stations available. Axes, spears, swords, poisonous darts - all of it meant nothing to Castiel. He worked in a power plant – that was all he knew. He didn't have any of this military training; he didn't even know what a javelin even was, let alone how to take someone's life with it.

She then moved on to the strategic stations, stressing the fact that many of the tributes would die of natural causes. Castiel was much more interested in these sorts of activities. He knew all too well that he could never best a career if it came to a physical confrontation, but he sure as hell could outthink one.

The second the group broke, Castiel barreled towards the poison station, Claire stumbling behind him to keep up. He knew the tributes from districts like 7 and 11 had most likely grown up memorizing which plants were potentially toxic, and he knew he couldn't afford to let then have that advantage. At the station was a large interactive computer tablet covered in thousands of leaves and berries.

"They are so beautiful," Claire breathed, fingering the picture of a bright turquoise flower.

"And fatal," the instructor at the station said solemnly. "In person, that flower would kill you in seconds."

Castiel gulped. He had never seen any of these plants; he had never been near anything like them. Come to think of it, he couldn't even think of a time when he had heard a bird's song in person. Burning his throat and lungs, his nerves boiled up inside of him. Could he even be good at the logical components of the games?

"Aw, little Cassie looks upset," a singsong voice chirped sarcastically from behind him. Castiel turned to face a rather beautiful girl with wavy brown hair. Two boys stood next to her, one on each side. The first boy had a harsh, rodent-like face and extremely thin hair while the other was nearly skeletal, his wild orange curls the only aspect of his body with any volume at all.

"I'm Meg Masters," the girl said with a smirk, "and this is Albert and Ardor."

Castiel was confused. They were all from various districts, so why were they conversing? He looked down at Claire whose face was also constricted in obvious puzzlement and distrust.

"What do you want?" he asked, trying to hide his suspicions and knowing he was horrible at it.

"I'm here with an offer," she said, stepping into Castiel. Pooling in his cheeks and chest, discomfort flooded his every core.

"What?" he tried to avert his gaze from the two large eyes that stared unwaveringly at him.

"You see them over there?" she nodded her head in the direction of the careers, who were repeatedly stabbing a practice dummy with a ten-inch knife. "The guys and I have noticed that they always win. But then last year the underdog got it, so I say we continue the pattern."

Castiel furrowed his brow. She was from 8, a district that rarely won. It would be natural for her to be a bit ruthless, but if she was hinting at what he thought –

"I say we form an alliance," she proposed, her voice as soothing as it was menacing.

"An alliance?" Castiel questioned quietly, almost as if it was against the rules. He looked at the group in a whole new way. The careers were like lions, whereas they were overweight, untrained housecats. The boy with the wild hair, Ardor, probably couldn't even lift one of the weights to save his life. Albert looked stronger, but it was in an ugly way that would most likely turn off any sponsors. Why would anyone want to side with them?

Why would anyone want to side with him?

"Yes," Meg started, "An alliance. I'm a good fighter, and so is Al. Ardor here knows everything, his father back in 3 programs all this junk. And you, everybody saw how you threw yourself in the line of fire for your little friend, Clara, right? You're the only thing we don't have."

Castiel looked at the floor. They wanted him because he was nice? Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Claire, still as surprised and suspicious as before, but now with a heartwarming smile.

"Can Claire come?" he asked without much thought.

"Sure, whatever."

"And what happens if we all make it to the end?" he wondered.

Meg's smile grew as Castiel seemed more and more open to the plan.

"I'll give everyone a ten minute head start," she chuckled, "Besides, by that point – if it does come – it'll just be us. An underdog will win. That's all I want."

She seemed sincere, but Castiel was never good at discerning that sort of thing. His eyes wandered to the careers and then to the giant, colorful screen of poisonous foliage. He couldn't do this on his own, and he knew now that he had been kidding himself by thinking otherwise. At least with them he might make it through the bloodbath. Even if they were to betray him, he could die knowing he tried.

"We're in."

Meg swiveled and walked away, her shoulders raised, strong and proud. Castiel and Claire watched the crowd wander away and eventually break. Had they really just allied?

"Do you think it'll work?" Claire interjected, straining her voice to conceal any hint of hope.

"No," he responded honestly, "No, I don't."

The two returned to their training for a few minutes. Castiel quickly found that although he didn't know any of these plants, he retained the information easily. Soon, he was able to fly through the tests like a professional. Memorizing the slides reminded him of home. If a boy his age wanted employment – which everyone did – he had to know every gear of the machine after mere seconds of instruction.

POP!

A loud noise shook the room as Madu beheaded the practice dummy, launching the thick head at the incredibly tall ceiling. The whole room was instantly captivated by this demonstration.

Claire tapped his shoulder, pulling him from the spectacle.

"Castiel," she whimpered, "Even if the group doesn't work out, will you still side with me?"

Castiel nodded gravely. How could this one girl he had met just a few days ago suddenly have the power to throw away his better judgment? Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she reminded him of home, of his sister. The thought of Anna sent a wave of depression to his heart. He wondered if she was sick by now, or if she was still walking around healthy, a ticking clock counting down above her head.

"Castiel?" she requested his attention once more, "If it comes down to it, I want you to kill me."

Trying to suppress the look of shock that flashed onto his face, Castiel frowned.

"Why would you ever say that?" He muttered angrily at a higher volume than he had anticipated, causing a few faces to turn and stare. He lowered his voice to a grumble, his face inches from hers. "You barely know me."

"Yeah, but I'm not stupid. I know I'll never win, I'm not even sure if I want to. All I know is that eventually one of those careers will show up, and I don't want to die at their hand."

As if on cue, the plastic head came bouncing to the ground. As much as he hated the idea, he understood where it came from. The games were growing closer and closer, and he knew he'd have to come to terms with the fact that he was going to die.

"I'll think about it."

**.o0o.**

"All I'm saying is that you're not technically a career, you're just from District 2. I don't see how siding with you would benefit me," Michael spoke with a very pompous, condescending edge.

Madu stood, her fists clenched at each side of her body. Taking a precautionary step back, Dean prepared for the worst. Michael had been excluding Madu all morning and had only just come out and said why. He had a point in rejecting the girl. Careers had more than just their lives on the line – they had their reputations, too. A guy like Michael wasn't about to sacrifice his for some loud mouthed girl who might crack under pressure.

"I am just as able as any of you, if not more!" she hissed, her eyes igniting with rage. Dean wanted to move farther away, but the girl from District 1, Lace, was watching him. Leaving would suggest fear, and fear would suggest a weakness. He knew better than that.

"Oh, really?" Michael laughed at Madu, "How many hours a day did you train?"

Madu stood silent, her face turning more and more red with every passing second.

"I didn't think so. Personally, I trained six. How many did you train, Lace?"

"Seven," she stated, straitening her back as she was called into conversation.

"Dean?"

"Twelve." The number was sour on his tongue. His father had given him eight hours of sleep, three hour-long meals, and an hour of personal time. Sometimes, he'd sacrifice sleep to lay awake at night and anticipate the games. The other tributes there had lives, friends, family. He had just had boot camp, fellow soldiers, and a drill sergeant.

Michael, however, looked impressed by his lifestyle.

"See," the career said, turning back to Madu, "You can't possibly be as good as us."

The young girl had clearly reached her boiling point. Alerting Dean of what was to come, a wave of calmness swept over her small body. Dean watched as Madu tore the knife from Michael's hands and swiftly decapitated a nearby dummy. The force of the blow sent the head spinning into the air and the entire room's jaws dropping to the floor.

"I can do whatever you can do, and I didn't need somebody to teach me," she stepped towards Michael, still wielding the knife. Dean caught a momentary glimpse of terror in the boy's eyes. The girl was good, he couldn't deny it.

"Fine," Michael grunted, trying to cover his fear with more of his haughty tone.

Madu laughed, bouncing to the next station with a foolish grin. Dean simply couldn't understand the girl. Just as she was starting to seem like the most horrifying person he had ever met, she acted in an indescribably girlish way.

"Dean?"

He turned, finding himself nose to nose with Lace. Her face was thin, pale, and elfish, like something out of a children's story. She was pretty in a haunting way, reminding him of a ghost of a once much more beautiful woman.

"I need to talk to you," she added, pulling him aside. They watched as Michael followed Madu, grumbling something under his breath.

"What?" he asked once they were out of earshot. He couldn't help by marvel at her flowing white-blonde hair. Captivating him, it shimmered as her head swayed from side to side.

"Can I trust you?"

The question was so straightforward that it threw Dean off. Lace, however, stood strong and waited for his answer.

"Uh," he thought about it a little longer than he probably should have, "I guess."

"So you won't turn on me until absolutely necessary?" she said, a look of irrepressible need in her large grey eyes.

"I won't," he responded more quickly this time.

"And you won't tell the others I asked you these things?"

"No," he said immediately. With more though he added, "Why?"

Lace bit her lip nervously and looked over at Michael, who was showing Madu how to use a bow on a moving target.

"Because I've known him for as long as I can remember, and I know I can't trust him. He cares about himself and his own twisted aspirations, nothing more, nothing less. I have no way of knowing how he'll act once the game starts, and I think we both know that Madu girl is completely insane. So, can I trust you?"

Dean almost felt bad for her. His entire life, the only person he saw daily who even sort of qualified as a friend was Ruby. He couldn't imagine what life would have been like if he had disliked her as Lace clearly disliked Michael.

"Definitely."

**.o0o.**

Sam grasped the hilt of the axe, flexing his fingers around its wooden frame. With one jerk, he pulled it into the air, unaware of its weight. The axe, lighter than he had anticipated, flew above his head.

"Calm down, buddy," the station advisor said, throwing their arms into the air.

"Sorry," Sam stuttered, "I just – I, uh, didn't expect it to be so heavy."

A look of pity consumed the trainer's face. Each of the advisors seemed to act that way while Sam was at their station. Even if the previous victor had been from 12, they saw him as a dead man even more than they did the others. Everyone from 12 died.

"Here, try holding it like this."

Sam turned to see Maria, holding a much larger axe as if she was about to tear into his unwary chest. He jumped back, crashing into the long metal table that held the other axes. A few clattered to the polished floor.

"Goodness," she laughed, lowering the weapon, "A little jumpy, huh?"

Sam nodded, leaning down to pick up the fallen artillery. The girl had turned full circle since their previous encounter, no longer withdrawn or mistrusting. In fact, she even kneeled down to help him.

"So, everyone seems to be forming alliances," she muttered quietly when their faces were close, looking directly into his eyes.

"I hadn't noticed," Sam answered honestly. To be truthful, one of the other tributes could have started screaming bloody murder and he probably wouldn't have noticed. His entire mind was focused on trying to retain the information each of the stations offered, he couldn't be bothered with what everyone else was doing.

"Really?" she asked in an overly relaxed way.

She inched closer towards him gracelessly.

"What do you want?" he decided to ask, leaning away from her.

"What do you think I want?" she said snobbishly, shaking her head as she spoke.

"Why me?" he inquired. Was this some sort of mind game, talking about unions that would never work out?

She sighed heavily as if what she was saying was too difficult to force out of her thin lips.

"Because I think you have potential," she answered, rising to her feet and beginning to pace back and forth.

"I've been training all my life for this," she continued, "So I know how to tell who can and can't be trained. You're what? Seven feet tall? Plus you volunteered so you're probably insane. Not to mention the fact that sponsors favor the victor's district."

She continued to ramble on about how great an ally he would make, but Sam had left the discussion. About 30 feet away, Rod stood alone watching them intently. He looked so small, dwarfed by the gigantic room. What would happen to the boy once the clock ticked down?

"What will I have to do?" he threw himself back into the conversation with little care of where he interrupted Maria.

"I'm not asking you to follow me around, I just don't want Rod and I to be the only ones without another person to count on. If it comes down to you having to choose between killing us or killing someone else, you'll have our best interest in mind. The same would go with us for you."

Sam nodded. He didn't really like the idea of having to look out for them, especially because Maria was so much more experience than he. But Rod was so small, so feeble compared to everyone else. The least he could do was promise not to hurt him.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," he grumbled, suddenly aware of the people in the room. He could be the one to take and of the lives in this room, and they could take his. At least he could sleep well knowing he wouldn't kill Rod.


	8. When You Win This

Sam was the first tribute to duck out of the door at the end of training. Since he was from District 12, he wouldn't have to return for individual assessment until after dinner, and he aimed to relish that free time.

On the journey back to his floor, Sam couldn't help but notice something. Merrill, the girl from his district, still refused to acknowledge his existence. The entire way up to their room she stayed at least 10 feet behind him. At one point, he even decided to stop walking just to see if she would too in order to avoid him. She did.

Even though she was a year older than he and Haymitch, Sam had known her from school. Throughout their time together, he had never once heard her talk, but almost every day he had watched her stay after class to discuss that day's lessons with the teacher. She may have been quiet, but she was definitely smart.

When they arrived at their floor, Merrill practically dove into her room and slammed the door loudly behind her, causing the walls to shake.

"I wonder what's her problem."

Haymitch appeared behind Sam, a rather large glass mug in his hand. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed and his whole body appeared abnormally slack.

"How drunk are you?" Sam asked, suddenly feeling the need to hold Haymitch up. The current victor was in terrible shape, and Sam knew it could only get worse. Pulling the near empty mug from the boy's hand, he led him to the couch. Haymitch collapsed with a grunt.

"Completely," Haymitch responded with a drunken gurgle, "This is my fifth mug! I broke a few others."

Sam sighed. This man was supposed to be his lifeline, and he couldn't even walk straight.

"Can you not drink for longer than a few hours?" he heard himself shout, instantly regretting his outburst. Haymitch was indeed a lifeline, but he didn't have to be. In fact, he could hurt Sam if he so desired.

Haymitch, however, didn't seem angry with him. A look of sadness washed over his aged face as he rolled his neck to look directly at Sam.

"I'm sorry," he said, seemingly sober for a single second.

Sam also felt rather apologetic. Having to come back to the place where he watched 47 other people learn to die, Haymitch must be going through a lot. If he had to do that, he would probably drink, too.

He sat next to Haymitch on the long animal fur couch. Haymitch was humming a daunting song as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Sam's eyes wandered to the mug where it had been placed on the embellished coffee table. Of all the days and nights he had spent in the Distillery, he had never actually tasted alcohol. People like Haymitch – those who could afford to splurge and waste a few hours on nonsense – had acted as a very powerful warning. Sam wasn't able to waste his money or time on such an indulgence.

Yet, as she sank further and further into the seat's plush cushions, a single thought popped into his overworked head. If he did survive this, he'd be the wealthiest person in his district – along with Haymitch, of course. He could afford to buy the Distillery from Gabriel's family and run it for years without any care for profit or income. Following the path Haymitch had clearly chosen, he could waste his life on drink. He could choose to survive in the dazed, drunken state forever and never have to worry about any repercussions but an early death. And if he didn't win? Then what would one or two drinks before his sendoff really do? Weaken the blow of his impending doom?

Sam leaned down, grasping the cold glass in his large hand. An inch of pungent brown liquid pooled in the bottom, and it was begging him to drink it. Letting it rest against his cold flesh, he pulled the mug to his lips.

"Stop that right now!"

Haymitch tore the mug away from Sam, slamming it back onto the coffee table with a loud crack. Intoxicated, his face seemed uncomfortably twisted and confused in what was either rage or pain.

"Do not let me catch you doing that ever again!" Haymitch grumbled, jabbing his finger deep into Sam's arm.

Agitated, Sam pulled away.

"Who are you to tell people not to drink?" Sam inquired.

"I think I'm the best person, that's who. Now you," he jabbed Sam again, "You are a contestant fighting for your life. You have to stay agile and focused. And when you win this – which I know you will – you will live a long, happy, sober life. I'm sure of it."

"Why should you be allowed to drink if I can't?" Sam asked, fury boiling in his voice. Haymitch sat stunned by his sudden change in tone.

"How about this, Sammy," Haymitch stated tranquilly, "If you win, I'll never drink again. I'll go completely dry. Hypocrisy never suited me, anyways."

"My name's Sam," he interjected, his calm change in tone signifying his approval of Haymitch's pledge.

Within minutes, the inebriated boy was unconscious, snoring into one of the couch's many cushions. Sam wondered if the man would even remember promising sobriety in a few hours, let alone stick to it.

Nevertheless, Sam took the mug and emptied the remaining liquid into a nearby plant.

**.o0o.**

Rocking anxiously on his heels, Dean stood alone outside the training center. For a boy from District 2, he would have to do exceptionally well on the following assessment. It was normal for the careers to get at least a 9, anything less would be a disgrace.

Panic struck him as he remembered his conversation with Carver. Would that affect his scores for the better or the worse? Would it even affect him at all?

The doors swung open as Madu was led from the room. She had an incredibly wide grin on her fierce face and was clearly red from exertion. Obviously, she had let loose once she was on her own, going wild on those poor practice dummies. She had given the Gamemakers a show of uncontrollable wrath.

A sense of confidence waved over him, for he now knew what he needed to do. The judges would have been drawn in by her power, but it would have been an empty sort of attention. Slaughtering the livestock Madu had managed to capture, he had to work off of that intrigue in a more intelligent way. The Gamemakers could engineer mindless killing machines, so he had to show them that he was something completely different.

Pushing past Madu, Dean wandered into the large room. It seemed so dreary without the other tributes, like an empty chasm full of sharp, dangerous weapons. Looking up at the balcony, he allowed himself to notice the Gamemakers, laughing and warm. Carver was located directly in the middle of the crowd. The Head Gamemaker was a completely different man than the one he had met in the hall. A slick smirk rested upon his calm face and a wild, animated tattoo wriggled around his neck. The tattoo hadn't been there before; any idiot would have noticed the ostentatious display.

Pulling his eyes away from the Gamemakers, he tried to focus on the many empty stations that littered the room. The survival stations remained completely untouched, all of their contents perfectly lined up. The weapons, however, were a mess. Manny of the dummies were shredded, their limbs and innards carelessly swept into small piles at their feet.

An idea popped into his mind as he found himself walking towards the whittling station. He was there for only a few moments, his hands flying across the soft wood with one of the Capitol's shining knives. Producing four objects, Dean jammed all but the largest into his belt and moved towards the knot tying station. He took a thin, strong string and tied it to both ends of the largest wooden object.

His heart flew as he moved from station to station, losing track of time. The Gamemakers sat forward in their seats, their eyes full of curiosity. He could practically hear them thinking: what could this boy possibly be up to?

Finally, he tied a few stones onto long sticks from the fire building station and returned to the dummies. Taking in a deep breath, he positioned himself a good distance from the 20 moving dummies.

As his father had always taught him, he counted down in his head: 3… 2… 1…

Every inch of his being relaxed as he succame to his inner power, releasing it onto the dummies. First, he took out the largest whittled contraption and carefully tucked one of the sticks into it. The Gamemakers audibly gasped as they finally recognized his makeshift bow and arrow, and their interests only rose as all 10 of the arrows made contact with their intended targets.

Dean threw the bow to the ground as he sprinted towards the remaining dummies. As he moved, the feeling of flight consumed him. Almost forgetting about the three other pieces of wood stowed in his belt, his heart skipped a beat. Crossing his arms across his chest, he simultaneously pulled two of the wooden knives and threw them with ease, impaling two dummies.

Approaching the remaining dummies, he pulled the final knife from his belt and reverted to one of the simplest fighting techniques. Within seconds, all but one of the dummies were either nearly or completely decapitated. He stood still for just a moment before jabbing the makeshift knife into the final dummy's gut.

It was done.

**.o0o.**

Castiel stared up at the Gamemakers, his heart exploding in his chest. During training, he had spent a few minutes at a couple of the weaponry stations, but he hadn't particularly excelled at any of them. Zachariah had told him to let loose, but he felt like if he did every fiber of his being would literally unravel, leaving him a jumbled mess on the floor.

He walked towards a table covered in various knives and blades. Having no idea what he intended to do once he got there, he kept his head down. He had to do something. Picking up a larger knife with a shining blue hilt, Castiel tried to grasp for some sort of way to make an impression.

Jogging over to the dummies, he concentrated on his breathing. Claire's advice from the train had been the most helpful suggestion he had ever received. His mind stayed relatively focused despite the fact that it remained shockingly empty.

The dummies shifted back and forth, their bodies secured on long metal beams. Holding the knife the way the trainer had taught him, he approached them. They moved faster than they had in practice, but it didn't matter. He was going to do poorly regardless.

Swiftly, he brought the knife down where the brachial artery would be on a living person. A part of him wondered if the Gamemakers would even notice his precision, his knowledge. Bringing he knife down a few more times, he successfully hit three more arteries. In District 5, the spinning machinery and dangerous equipment made learning these weak spots the most important necessity.

Turning his head towards the Gamemaker's loft, he frowned. None of them were even paying attention. He walked over to the fire starting station and set fire to a stack of kindling in mere seconds. Nothing.

As agitating as their lack of interest was, Castiel felt as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. It didn't matter what he did or how impressive he was, they already had his fate decided. The most he could do now was prove them wrong.

But he knew that would never happen.

**.o0o.**

Sam was pacing. He had never paced before – he had never had a reason to. To his surprise, the continuous movement was somewhat calming, like a child being rocked to sleep.

He was going to be the last tribute to be assessed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he laughed. They saved the best for last, he joked with himself cynically. Haymitch had coached him on how to act after he had regained his consciousness. Apparently, the Gamemakers only paid any attention to the Careers. The rest of the tributes were scored based on their appearance, or – according to rumor – they were given random scores to add a sense of suspense.

Sam, however, had volunteered, so Haymitch had no idea what that would mean during his assessment.

A shiver shot up his spine as the doors opened and Merrill stumbled out. Her appearance caught him off guard, for he had never seen someone so scared, so nervous. A part of him wanted to reach out and comfort the girl, but he knew better. He knew he could never show her, or anyone else for that matter, that level of affection.

Walking around the trembling girl, he made his way into the cold room. By now, it looked as if the room had been hit by a series of tornados, a small group of people still cleaning up a mess left by one of the tributes. All of them blatantly ignored Sam's arrival, acting as if nothing had changed.

The Gamemakers were the same. By now, they had finished off most of the food that had been graciously delivered to them and were reclining in their large luxurious chairs and discussing everything but him. How could they do this, this terrible job? It was different, watching the games and feeling bad for the tributes, but how could they be so content when they would be the ones ordering his death?

For his assessment, Sam really didn't do much of anything. He threw around a few of the weights and an axe or two, all with reasonable accuracy and skill. Had they been watching, they probably wouldn't have been completely bored out of their minds. He was mediocre.

Yet in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but replay Haymitch's words.

_And when you win this – which I know you will – you will live a long, happy, sober life. I'm sure of it._


	9. Family

Castiel returned to his room disheartened and exhausted. His heart, wild and frantic, felt as if it was about to burst from his worn, pale chest. His entire life had been spent around other workers and Anna, but now he was just as alone as he had always feared. He hated it. He hated not having someone to look to, someone to seek guidance from.

Throwing himself onto the large king-sized bed, he attempted to will away his loneliness and the hatred toward this place. Consumed by the mattress, his mind wandered home. When he was ten, Anna had taken him to a small bargain marketplace outside of town. There, they had managed to acquire their two heavily used mattresses. For months afterwards, sleeping actually felt like rest. Compared to this bed, however, they had been torturous rocks.

He still missed them.

"Castiel?" Claire's sweet voice rang out through the relatively thin door. Despite the fact that Claire seemed to enjoy his company, being near her was beginning to make him feel even worse. Claire reminded him of his fate, of exactly what death would mean.

"I'm coming!" Castiel called back, dragging himself from the bed. Opening the door, he found the young girl. She was as pale and terrified as he was, her hands clasped together in front of her most likely uneasy stomach. Deep down, he wondered if it showed as obviously on his face as well.

"They are announcing training scores," she mumbled. Her voice was careful, almost as if her words were potentially offensive.

Together, they walked to the main room. There, their escort and three of the four surviving victors from District 5 sat surrounding a large television screen. Zachariah was lounging on the middle of the long couch, the only two remaining seats at each side.

"Come on, kids!" he said, patting the cushions beside him. Castiel winced at the thought of sitting beside the man, but he had to. In the next few weeks, he'd have to do a lot of things that'd make him wince.

On the screen Caesar Flickerman, with hair speckled a shining gray, silver, and brown, and a few other Capitol representatives were chatting about what the scores meant, what the average scores were, and other relevant things. The previous victor, Haymitch, had only gotten a 7 – a score that was actually quite rare from his district. Caesar joked about how that meant anyone could win no matter what the score. There was something almost friendly about the announcer, about the way he seemed to speak to the tributes. He saw them as people rather than the dolls of the Capitol, or at least he recognized that he was supposed to.

Before Castiel knew it, faces were flashing onto the screen. The boy who had attacked him, Michael, had managed a 10. Even for a career, that was actually quite fantastic.

Suddenly, Castiel began to worry about his own score. From what Zachariah had insisted, every one of the tributes would tear these scores apart. 10? They must be a monster. 3? They're either a blubbering idiot or a conniving lunatic.

The boy who defended him dissolved onto the screen, a large glowing "11" next to him. For some reason, Castiel almost felt sorry for him. The careers always turned on the highest rankers first, despite how impressed they may seem now.

A few more scores came and went, almost always getting lower and lower. Finally, his glowing blue eyes – as menacing as he could make them – were staring back at him.

6.

He didn't know what to feel. A part of him was happy that he didn't totally fail, but he knew what people would think. To the other tributes he could be an easy kill or a deceitful killer. Anyways, he could probably escape the bloodbath on a six.

Claire won a 5, which was actually a surprise. Castiel could never imagine her lashing out at anyone.

From then, no one scored above an 8 (including the boy from 12). Until Meg, of course, who scored a 9 and tied with a few of the careers. A feeling of what could only pride swelled inside his heart. He would be working _with_ her.

But then a creeping fear shoved it away. Would the careers go after her? Would they go after him?

Noticing his poorly hidden frantic expression, Zachariah leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

"Don't worry, boy. You can at least take the girl," he said motioning back at Claire.

It didn't help.

**.o0o.**

All of the tributes were lined up outside the stage, all in the nicest clothing their designers could think of. Dean was suited in a light grey tuxedo, his sandy hair gelled back to expose his admittedly stunning face. Next to him, Madu stood with a similar hairstyle and a structured grey dress. Silently, he wondered what sort of angle they hoped to work with the girl. Vicious, most likely. As his father had always said:

"Remember son, the Capitol loves a violent killer."

The words seemed so clear, so real. He shuddered at the impression his father had left on him. That one man had been able to engrave words into his mind to the point that they spoke louder that his own thoughts.

A hand fell onto Dean's shoulder, causing him to nearly leap out of his flesh. Spinning on his heel, he came face to face with none other than John Winchester.

"Dad?" Dean asked, his voice nothing but a young child's whimper. It hadn't been his memory of his father's voice, it had been the real thing.

John stopped next to him for only a moment, wearing a similar suit. Dean knew his father had the option to come and coach him, but if he had made the effort to voice anything in his life, it had been the fact that he didn't want him there. In fact, Dean had blatantly told him multiple times that he would rather have any other victor to coach him.

"I want to be able to concentrate on winning, not worried about how you might feel about my safety," he had lied one day during the walk home from training.

"As long as you have a good coach, I won't worry about your safety, son," his father had responded harshly. Dean had reasserted the point a few other times, so he had assumed his father had gotten the real message. These last few days away from his father, even if they had been spent training just as he had spent every other day, had been unimaginable. He had been free of him.

The screams of the thousand-some Capitol citizens bombarded Dean's eardrums as the large doors were open and Lace was led out onto the stage in her sparkling pink dress. The tributes were able to watch the interviews on a rather large screen, but at the moment Dean was completely unable to pull his eyes away from his father's.

"You can't be surprised to see me here, Dean," John finally responded with a chuckle, "You honestly couldn't expect me to watch my son go through this back in the district, could you?"

His father's nonchalance was unsettling. How could he stand there and watch his son go through the same traumatic experience he had, and how could he do it with such a sickening smile on his face?

Snapping Dean out of his shock, someone farther down the hall called back to John.

"I have to go, boy," John said, patting his shoulder once more and sending shivers down his spine, "See you after your interview."

And John was gone, leaving Dean a complete and total emotional wreak. One of the tributes behind him quietly muttered something about how he missed his father, but it only made Dean feel worse.

"You okay, Winchester?" Madu said next to him. She sounded sincere, but at this point he had no idea what to think. His mind was shattered. Turning to face the girl, he met nothing but a closing door.

It was almost time for his interview.

Frantically, Dean attempted to collect himself. This was the last time he'd be able to make an impression before the games, and he didn't want to come off as a whining, anxious, panicky child. He wanted to be a strong addition to the Winchester legacy.

Or at least he wanted the people of the Capitol to think he was.

The doors opened and a rather large man swept him onto the stage. It was a weird sensation, walking out into the heavily lit theatre. It was similar to the Chariot Ride in the sense that every sound he could hear was his own name echoing out of the darkness, but it was also completely alien. When he turned to face the crowd, a winning smile on his face, he could see nothing but a thousand spotlights.

He had never felt so alone.

Taking his seat next to the famous Caesar Flickerman, Dean made sure to follow all of his father's etiquette tips. But then in a fit of organized rebellion, he spread his legs and leaned back, making sure to seem utterly relaxed.

"This must be a walk in the park for you, huh? Even managed to swing an 11!" Caesar beamed, noticing his posture. There was something about Caesar's unrepeatable elation that amazed Dean. How could one person be so charismatic?

"Yeah, I had expected a 10," Dean tried to match the man's captivating appearance.

"Modest too!" Caesar allowed the audience to laugh for a moment before turning back to him, "So Dean, I heard a rumor that your father is coaching you, what is that like?"

"Honestly," Dean started, not knowing how to finish in a positive way, "I just found out that he was here a few seconds ago."

Caesar leaned back in surprise.

"You mean he's backstage?"

Dean's heart sank as he realized what Caesar was about to do. A loud murmur rose throughout the room, sending shivers down Dean's spine. Would he publicly be able to contain himself around John?

He didn't have the opportunity to figure it out for himself, for his father was already on the stage. The crowd went wild, their screams piercing the heavily fortified shield Dean had trained so hard to build. A few men pushed a third chair next to him, which his father graciously fell into.

"John Winchester!" Caesar exclaimed, leaning over to shake the man's hand. Bile rose in Dean's throat as they began to chat about John's life after the Games. Naturally, the Capitol would eat it up. The people of the districts typically looked down on the Games, so they were bound to play up John's love for them. Every once in a while, Dean would hear his name come into play, but he had left the interview when his father arrived.

"I believe we have a small clip of your final minutes in the arena, do you mind if we play them for old time's sake?" Caesar pulled Dean back in. Were they really that into his father's story?

"It would be my honor," John said genuinely.

Suddenly the entire wall behind Dean melted away into a huge television screen. There was complete silence as the cameras panned over a much younger John Winchester, his rigid jaw and deep black hair reminding Dean of Michael. Blood was dried on his shirt and neck, mixing with a brown layer of sweat and grime. Dean had seen his father's video hundreds of time. By this point, all of the other careers had died, two of them taken by his hand after a rift within the alliance had formed. John had managed a kill total of five tributes and was inching towards his sixth.

There was only one more tribute left, a stocky girl from 6. She had hidden in the woods for the first few weeks, attempting to wait out the worst. John had found her, though.

Like Dean, John could track anyone.

He normally looked away once the screaming started, but the audience's eyes bore into the back of his head. The girl put up a fight, slicing a large gash in John's stomach. John fell to the ground, clutching his stomach as he fought the pain. Within seconds, he was still – the forest floor coated with his blood. A relieved look washed over the girl's face as she watched John die.

But a canon never sounded.

John leapt from the ground, startling even Dean. The girl fell to the ground in fear, knocking her head on a tree stump. John didn't take the chance she did, though, throwing himself onto of her and stabbing her repeatedly.

Nausea washed over Dean. That was the Games, not the fluff pouring out of some grey dummy. He would have to kill, just as his father had.

However, it was when John looked up and made eye contact with the cameras and that horror flooded Dean's veins. He expected the people of the Capitol to miss it, for only someone who had seen that look staring back at them in the mirror would notice it. It was regret and self loathing.

Dean watched his father force away the need to die as the final canon sounded. All of his life, Dean had seen John as an unmovable force, a mindless soldier trained to kill without sympathy. The Games hadn't affected him, so why would the effect Dean? But that look, that second's glimmer of depression, it said it all. He knew exactly what he was putting his son through.

And a new sort of anger arose within Dean's gut.

**.o0o.**

Castiel felt as if he was in a different place, like he wasn't standing in the stuffy hallway watching the other tributes' interviews. He had only gone to school for a month or two, but lined up with the others he couldn't help but reminisce. In a minute, the teacher with her borderline sweet-smelling hair would burst from the classroom door and take them in for a few hours of organized study. No one would have to die or kill, just sit and think.

And yet the doors weren't opened by the foggy woman from Castiel's memories, but rather a towering man with empty yellow eyes. The man grabbed his shoulder and carelessly threw him on stage.

Finding his way to the large interview chair, he felt his words cling to his throat in a thick, suffocating way. Would he even be able to answer any of the questions posed to him? Would he even be able to breathe?

"So Castiel," he heard Caesar's soft voice, disjointed by his nervous haze, "What is life like back in District 5?"

"Bleak," Castiel yelped without any forethought, his words like a bubble rapidly launched to the surface, "Tiresome."

The crowd that sat behind the millions of spotlights laughed, completely unaware of Castiel's honesty. The dark happiness churned his stomach.

Could they see his panic?

"What's your family like? We've had a lot of those today!" Caesar boomed, reviewing previous interviews as Castiel's sank.

Castiel leaned farther into his chair as grief overwhelmed his fear. Somewhere Anna was watching him, a terrible disease growing bigger and stronger with every second it took up residence in her body. What would she think when she saw her baby brother on the screen utterly terrified?

"I only have an older sister," he blurted from the cocoon of the chair, "Sh-she's dying of cancer."

A spark of sadness ignited in Caesar's eyes, momentarily reminding Castiel that this colorful man was indeed human.

"Are you two seeking treatment? Cancer is an easily curable disease."

Castiel instantly sat up, the stunned and sympathetic silence of the audience creepily inviting. He had managed to get them interested in the interview, a feat he had never imagined possible.

"We can't afford it," he mumbled, hardly loud enough for his microphone to pick up. A few kind "aw"s echoed back, but he tried to ignore them.

"Well once you've won, you can pay for her treatment twice! Three times even!" The crowd roared in a blissful approval as the bitter realization hit Castiel like a speeding train. Couldn't Caesar tell he could never reign victor? He would never beat Meg or Michael or Dean.

To him, the Games were life's sick way of flaunting Anna's only outrageous chance at survival. Sure, if he did win he could revive her, but that was equivalent to finding a random box full of billions and billions of dollars on the side of the road. It _could_ happen, but it never would. No matter how wonderful the screaming audience seemed to think this possibility was, it was a lie. Castiel was just as powerless now as he had been the moment Anna had revealed her fate.

**.o0o.**

Dean stood wearily backstage, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his grey dress pants. It was much easier to watch the other tribute's interviews now that he had already gone.

Now that his father had already stolen his.

Of all of the interviews, he knew that his would stand out the most. Nothing like it had ever happened before, and honestly Dean wasn't even sure if it was allowed. The only other interview that even sort of measured up to his was that of the helpless boy he had stopped Michael from demolishing. The boy, Castiel, had mentioned a dying sister that only he could save. At first, Dean didn't buy it. Every year some kid forged a tear-jerking sob story, and every year he could tell they were faking it. This kid, however, looked about to cry before he had even had the chance to say anything. That sort of love, that sort of devotion, was completely unable to be faked. If his years of training next to soulless people had taught him anything, it would be that.

The mere thought of his training sent a shockwave of rage through his body, boiling his blood and blurring his eyesight. He had always hated seeing parents live vicariously through their children – making them take up special hobbies or practices, but what his father was doing was unfathomably worse. He was allowing himself to die through his son. No matter how large the part of John that thought Dean could make it was, the part that didn't still remained.

"Son, I need to talk to you about the interview," his father's booming voice appeared behind him, igniting an even more powerful anger. Unlike earlier, however, he didn't jump. This confrontation was to be expected.

"Since we're clearly playing off of this 'Winchester legacy' thing I need you to remember my tech—" John started, his permanently disappointed glare cutting into Dean.

"Stop!" Dean shouted, effectively silencing his father. John stood stunned, but allowed his son to continue.

"Stop talking! Stop coaching me! Stop treating me like some goddamn attack dog!" Dean knew he could have kept going, but his better judgment put a dam on his angry river of words.

"Son, I—" his father looked at him with a mix of confusion and anger. Dean shook his head violently, the dam bursting at his father's expression.

"No, no! Get away from me! Let me go die as _you_ planned, okay? Let me go face the fate you planned for me! The fate you knew about! And if by any chance in hell I do win, I don't want to see your face ever again!"

He didn't wait for his father to react, but rather turned and stormed away. As he did, a thin smile graced his face. He was free. Finally, he had managed to say everything he had ever wanted to say. The sensation of weightlessness flooded his every core as he went. He was walking on a cloud. It may have been a stormy one, but it was a cloud just the same.

**.o0o.**

Alone in the hallway, Sam waited. He would be the last interview, and it tore at his mind. He knew Caesar would have a lot of questions for the volunteer from District 12.

Finally, a man came to get him. Remembering the brutish persona he was supposed to be portraying, Sam made sure to lean towards Caesar as he sat down, a strikingly aggressive stance when compared to the other tributes.

"How are you, Mr. Flickerman?" he inquired, suddenly feeling as if he was channeling Haymitch. He couldn't remember anyone else ever starting their own interview, so he decided to change the pace.

"Well, I am just fine," Caesar said, not allowing himself to be outwardly phased by Sam's attitude, "But this interview is about you, not me."

A few people in the audience giggled in response.

"Well, I assure you, you are much more interesting than me," Sam smirked, his nerves suddenly subdued. For some reason, the power he had over the audience was nearly intoxicating. For these few minutes, he was in charge of the entire country.

"I'd doubt that!" Caesar laughed back, "You volunteered for this position, an incredibly rare accomplishment for your district! What was that like?"

Sam didn't know how to answer, but he refused to lose this control.

"Exhilarating and terrifying," he said to the audience, making sure to hide the fact that he spent every waking moment trying to suppress the memory. The memory of Gabriel's depressed face –

"Why did you do it, may I ask?" the interviewer pried, just in time to pull Sam from his thoughts.

"My crippled friend was the first boy to be Reaped, so I took his place," he grinned casually at the audience's supportive cheers.

"That's very noble of you," Caesar said, clearing his throat to show that he wasn't finished, "Following today's theme, though, may I ask you relation to Adam Wesson?"

Sam froze, his face flushing with every feeling he should have felt since his Reaping. The audience was silent, perhaps due to the liquid fire that pooled under his cheeks or rather the mention of an unrecognizable name. Sam didn't expect any of them to remember Adam.

He didn't expect them to remember him after he died, either.

"Brother," he blurted disjointedly, "he was my older brother."

Another sympathetic sigh.

"Wow!" Caesar exclaimed, placing a supportive hand on the boy's shoulder, "We have a lot of returning families! For those of you who don't know, Adam was an unfortunate tribute in the 45th Hunger Games. He did quite well, if I'm remembering him correctly. A part of me thought you were avenging him."

Sam, flinching at the use of the word "unfortunate", tried to continue.

"Perhaps," he answered far too quietly. He could remember watching Adam's death – watching his older brother slain by some grunt. Perhaps he had subconsciously volunteered out of vengeance.

"Well, that's it, folks!" Caesar boomed, rising from his chair, "Let's have a round of applause for our final tribute!"

And everything Sam had known seemed to crumble away at the sound of his applause.


	10. The Bloodbath

"You'll do fine," Haymitch sat on the floor across from Sam, his trembling hands together in his lap. Sam could tell he was struggling without his hourly drink, for before him sat an unraveled version of the boy he knew. For some reason, though, Haymitch's struggle made him feel just a little bit better.

On Sam's head was a knit beanie, and he was equipt with tall hiking boots and an apparently waterproof jacket, a small '12' pressed onto its left breast. All of the garments were rather thick, which, to say the least, was unsettling. An arctic arena was the worst he could imagine.

The small room was designed solely to hold the elevated pedestal on which Sam stood. The disk of shining metal was meant to raise him into the chosen arena; the arena where he'd fight the other tributes to the death. It made no point to try and guess where he'd end up in only a few short minutes. He'd be swallowed by panic and confusion regardless.

"I sure hope so," Sam responded, jamming his hands into the jacket's large pockets.

"No, I mean it," Haymitch insisted. Haymitch also dug his hands into one of the pockets that lined the inside of his suit, but unlike Sam he was clearly searching for something. Retrieving a small parcel, Haymitch stood.

"Take it," he said, extending the tiny paper bag to Sam. "I wore it for my games, so you should have it for yours. It's only natural we start a tradition for the victors of 12."

Tearing open the bag, Sam found a minuscule golden amulet. It was secured to a thin black string, one that could easily have been found on the ground at the Hob. Its size and simplicity stood for everything that represented District 12.

"I had it cleared, so you can bring it into the arena without a problem. I felt sort of bad that your family and friends didn't give you anything."

Haymitch continued to ramble on in his withdraw-induced explanation as Sam slid the necklace over his head. Tucking the amulet under his shirt, he smiled.

"I'll return it when the games are over, okay?" Sam said, not sure where he had interrupted Haymitch.

"Naturally," Haymitch chuckled.

Two officials came to remove Haymitch, just as they had Gabriel. Sam waved goodbye offhandedly, but deep down he hoped it wouldn't be permanent. Returning his sentiment with a lopsided smile, Haymitch waved back wearily.

The doors to the room hissed shut, leaving Sam alone. The only other visible thing in the room was a large digital clock with no real purpose but to show him how long he had until the games would officially start, until he would end. One minute and 40 seconds. One minute and 30 seconds. The time seemed to fall away faster than ever before, betraying Sam as it crumbled into nothing.

At 80 seconds, he began to rise. Closing his eyes, he tried to will away the event. In seconds, multiple people would be gone forever, and he might be one of them. Hell, he could be the one to take them away.

The movement soon stopped at the pedestal fell into place.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 51st Annual Hunger Games begin!"

A loud voice began to count down the sixty seconds before they could leave their pedestals. An icy atmosphere hung around him. It wasn't quite arctic but still cool enough to chill. Sam figured he should open his eyes and use what little time he had to form some sort of plan, but his fear glued them shut.

"30! 29! 28! 27!"

Sam couldn't hear anything but the numbers. They were so loud that he could literally feel the sound bouncing off of his skin. It was strange, the sort of noise they made. It was almost as if the announcer was speaking through some sort of funnel. It almost reminded him of the way the guide spoke in the mines.

"10! 9! 8! 7!"

Finally able to force his eyes open, Sam looked around.

He was met by complete and total darkness.

**.o0o.**

"3! 2! 1!"

Out of the darkness burst the cornucopia, suddenly illuminated like a reactor at the plant. Shadows cascaded against the walls of what Castiel could only assume was a cavern. He had never seen a space so dark. Even with the cornucopia, he could barely see this one.

Leaping from the pedestal as if it were made of bees, he looked for an escape. From where he was standing, he could make out at least two exits. Backing towards one of them, a brief memory of his alliance flitted through his racing mind.

Claire.

Frantically, Castiel dove into the shadows, watching the bloodshed that surrounded him from a seemingly hidden place. The youngest boy, Pan from District 8, was sobbing on the ground. Castiel couldn't tell if the boy was actually wounded or if he had merely snapped. Either way, every part of him yearned to help the boy.

As he was about to reveal himself, the small black-haired girl from District 2 ran past and gutted the boy, ending the loud sobs that had echoed off of the walls with one last shudder. It was the first time Castiel had actually watched someone die. Sure, in the plants he would see injuries or diseases – some of which proved fatal, but he had never actually heard someone take their last breath.

Scream their last scream.

"Castiel!" he heard a voice shout. Albert materialized before him, his face and cap bloody, but his body unharmed.

Relief. He had found them. He had found his saviors.

"Albert?" he asked, mainly to make sure the bloody boy was really there. "Where's Claire?"

Albert shook his head violently, pulling the cap off of his nearly bald head.

"Listen, man, we have to get o –"

Again, Castiel heard the noise. The noise made at someone's end. This time, however, it was accompanied by a small shower that sprinkled onto his jacket, reminding him of the bit of rain that fell before a storm. Castiel froze under the mixture of blood and spit, trying to process what had just happened.

Albert collapsed onto the group with a thump, suddenly a marionette released by his master. Castiel searched for the cause, his back remaining pressed firmly against the cool cave wall. A long throwing knife jetted out of the boy's breathless back. Unable to take his eyes off of the soiled weapon, his mind stopped. Time stopped. Nothing in the world mattered but that one boy with the knife in his back.

Castiel felt someone grab his shoulder and pull him further into the darkness. Still, his eyes stayed glued on the dead boy. The way his body laid on the rocky ground in an uncouth sleep was hypnotic.

"Castiel!" someone called in the distance, their voice near a whisper. No, Castiel realized. They were not far away. Meg stood a few inches from his face, screaming for him to follow. Her wavy brown hair was tied back to expose her surprisingly angry face. Next to her stood Ardor, eyes glassy and scared.

"We have to get out!" Meg yelled, her voice suddenly much louder. Castiel pulled his glance from Albert, attempting to remember how to move and speak.

"Where's Claire?" his voice was different, more rugged than he remembered. Something inside of him had changed.

The Games had started.

"She's somewhere over there," Meg answered, motioning carelessly with her hand, "Castiel, she's probably dead. You have to save yourself."

Castiel clenched his jaw and turned in the direction Meg had motioned. Barely able to see anything outside the cornucopia's range, he made out a vicious war scene at its mouth. About twenty feet from it laid a small crumpled form with one long, blonde ponytail.

Claire.

Turning swiftly from Meg's grasp, he ran to her, careful to remain as silent as possible. Her body was curled where she lay on the ground. Castiel felt a twinge of happiness as he approached her, for she looked nothing like Albert had – limp and twisted. No, she was tense; she was frigid even. She was still alive.

"Claire?" he whispered as he stooped beside the girl. Why did he care so much? Why didn't he just leave her there and have one less person to worry about? As much as he wanted to lease, he still shook her awake.

"Castiel?" the small coo was barely audible. The girl peered up at him with a startlingly pained expression.

Castiel's eyes fell to her hands. Both of them clutched desperately at her stomach, glistening blood drenching their shaking form. On the ground beside her rested yet another knife, this one much less bloody than Albert's.

"It's going to be okay," he lied. It might not have been a deep enough wound to kill her immediately, but she'd never make it like this for the remainder of the games.

The girl was small, so with little effort he was able to lift her from the ground. Instantly, he was thankful for the waterproof feature of his jacket, for he could feel a warm patch developing where the girl was bleeding. She was breathing heavily and her heartbeat was rapid, but other than that she seemed fine.

Fine, Castiel scoffed to himself.

Meg and Ardor were almost gone by the time that the caught up. At the sign of Claire's torn body, Ardor leapt behind Meg.

"No, we're not taking her," Meg said to the boy.

"Then you can give me a knife and let me pass," Castiel growled, attempting to stand his ground despite the girl in his arms. With a groan, she tossed a pack at his feet.

"Come on, we're going."

**.o0o.**

The first person Dean took was a boy. He remembered seeing the boy, Liam Chang – the male tribute from District 9, during training. He was only a year younger than Dean, yet he stood almost a foot shorter. Regardless of his height, the boy was terribly average with average hair, average eyes, average build, and even an average score of 7. Michael had insisted on tagging him as dangerous due to his obvious aversion to the lifting station, but Dean didn't believe it for a second. Past tributes from 9 had suffered chronic back problems, so he supposed that that was the most likely culprit.

Dean counted down with the announcer, trying desperately to make out their location. The announcer's echo suggested that they were indoors – something that he had never seen before. The air was cold and thick, but it was unlike anything he had experienced in training. There was something familiar, however; he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Once the canon fired and the cornucopia became visible, Dean immediately reverted to his training. Jumping from the pedestal, he reviewed the basic rules of the bloodbath that his father had taught him. _Get a weapon, take out the target, avoid becoming one_, spoke the emotionless voice in his mind. The steps were easy to follow.

Get a weapon.

Dean was the first tribute at the glowing cornucopia, and his hands were the first on a pack of throwing knives and a beautiful sword. Madu arrived shortly after, but she was gone in a second. Dean didn't stick around to see what the other careers took. He needed to get to the next step.

Take out the target.

Fleeing the scene rather than sticking around to find supplies, a few tributes had made their way into the shadows. Liam was unlucky enough to be the first individual to catch his eye. Standing over a pile of supplies, the boy seemed about to flee. Like a machine, Dean sent two of the knives spiraling into the boy as he had over a thousand dummies. Liam fell – just as the dummies had, and he crumpled – just as the dummies had.

Nevertheless, there was something strange about the passing. When Liam fell, it was like he dragged a part of Dean with him. His chest was a bit emptier in a gross and horrifying way.

But he had to keep going.

Avoid becoming the target.

Ducking as an axe was poorly launched past his head, he turned to meet his next victim. Readying his knife, he watched as Albert Nutt from District 7 ran towards the shadows. Albert had managed a higher score than Liam, ranking at an 8.

The knife left his hand before his heart could beat. Albert fell exactly the way Liam had, tearing away another piece of Dean as he went. Apprehensively, he looked around. Many of the tributes had either run off, died, or joined the brawl by the cornucopia. The gaping hole now growing inside him ached to run into the shadows, but he resisted it. He had to stay with the careers.

A part of him still needed to win.

At that moment, a reflection in the shadows caught his eye. Two small orbs of blue hovered over Albert, wide and unblinking. It was the boy from 5, the one he had stopped Michael from attacking.

"If you have the chance to kill, take it," his father's voice barked in the back of his mind as he flexed his fingers on the hilt of his knife.

"No," he responded aloud, "Not anymore."

And so Dean turned from the boy and ran towards the cornucopia.


	11. The First Eight

When Sam had started working in the mines almost a year ago, a guide had been assigned to show him and a few other boys around. It took the whole day to navigate the maze of caves and tunnels. At that time, they had absolutely terrified Sam. Paths that had appeared to be a continuation of the main route were truly death traps that lacked oxygen or were littered with chasms that seemed to reach to the center of the earth. Making it so that most of the miners had to imagine the terrain based off prior knowledge and intuition, each mining group was only equipped with one or two flashlights. Every day, there were casualties from obstacles that could have easily been avoided.

The guide had told them exactly how to ensure their survival. "Move slow, learn to listen rather than see, and turn back the second things begin to seem odd," he had grumbled when a jittery boy had asked.

What had seemed excessively simple at the time quickly proved nearly impossible. Each miner had a daily quota, and in order to make said quota Sam would typically have to sprint from location to location. Plus, the sounds that would have signaled water cascading down a chasm or the crunching of shifting rock were silenced by the vociferous sound of hundreds of men picking at the walls and ceilings.

The crippling fear that one might lose pay was the most common cause of death or injury. The money made at the mines was just enough to afford food and basic supplies, but that could only comfortably cover two or three people. Many men within the town supported whole families, sometimes even spanning over multiple generations. Sure women could make money, too, but the mines were the only place to make a solid living for those outside of the merchant class. In a situation where a miner had to choose between continuing down an apparently hazardous path or having a day's pay taken, they would almost always go with the former.

The first major disaster during Sam's employment occurred after about 3 months. A large section of the main system collapsed, killed over 30 men and wounded many more. Sam could remember the way the whole world seemed to shake as mountains of dust and rubble surged down the tunnel, suffocating and blinding him within seconds. Luckily, he was only trapped for about an hour before a guide came and freed him and a few others. From what he heard, some men were in the mines without food or clean water for almost six days.

In the Games, though, Sam was able to move more slowly. The second the clock was finished counting down, he had leapt from his pedestal and backed into the nearest tunnel. Bloodcurdling screams and shouts could still be hear from the Cornucopia, but they were nothing compared to the miners' picks. The pathway was completely unlit and rugged, but from what he could tell, it seemed sturdy. Sturdy and silent.

Taking in a deep breath, he tested the air. Fresh. Too fresh, almost. There was something off about the air, as if it was coming through some sort of ventilation system. It probably was.

Fresh air is a good thing, Sam tried to reason with himself as he continued farther into the caves. He felt uneasy about it, though, having the Gamemakers control his airflow so obviously. He could run from fire or water or any living creature, but he couldn't run from suffocation.

With a rather loud thud, Sam met a sudden and unforeseen dead end. Rubble cascaded down onto him in a dusty shower as the weak wall buckled under his impact. Sam froze, wondering if anyone had heard his first mistake. When he was met by a thick silence, he let out a deep sigh.

His mind flew to devise some sort of plan. He couldn't go back to the Cornucopia. By now, the careers would have congregated; having taken out every remaining tribute. He would never be able to sneak past them with his life.

Failure. He had run into a dead end, what? Ten minutes into the game? Now he was trapped and hopeless and lost and alone. And it was all his fault. He had volunteered for this, he had pulled his own trigger and now the bullet had made its mark. Haymitch, Gabriel, his district – they would all be disappointed with him.

For the first time, Sam truly felt the repercussions of his actions. Whether they had been out of guilt or vengeance, it was all over now. Sam turned, rage boiling his face red and his knuckles turning white. In one swift motion, he brought them down onto the wall. More dust and stone fell onto his cap, but this time he heard a few large chunks of rock clatter to the cave floor. Furrowing his brow, Sam brought his fists down once more, this time without any rage or self pity.

Placing his hand gingerly on the wall, Sam began to investigate. He had never been in the clearing team, but he knew what a study wall felt like. What stood before him was no such thing, but rather a loosely packed stack of small pebbles and a few larger boulders. Feeling around, he found that this wall ended sharply as it met the side walls and lower ceiling, which were made of smooth, water-carved stone.

Amplified as it compacted in the tunnels, the sound of talking suddenly surrounded him. Sam knew who they were instantly; no one else would be that loud. The Careers were coming.

Without much thought, Sam pulled off one of his large hiking boots. The heel was hard rubber, and was the closest thing to a pick he could find without wasting valuable time or energy. As silently as possible, he beat at the barrier with the shoe. Falling away easily, a small hole opened in the wall. Within a few minutes of chipping, the hole appeared large enough to squeeze through.

Sam was growing frantic as the voices approached. Jumping through his passageway, a small bit of him managed to calm down. But then as he turned to face the barrier, a single thought passed through his rapid mind. Would the careers fit as well? Others began to flow uncontrollably, his hands beginning to shake as he lost control of his mind. Would they climb through the hole that he made and pursue him down the tunnels with the vicious aggression they were famous for? Would they be able to trap him if he came to another obstacle?

Yes.

With all of his strength, Sam's panic thrust a nearby boulder into the hole. Suppressing a scream as he felt his muscles tear under the weight, he jammed the rock in as far as it would go. Once the rock was secure, he let himself breathe once more. At least now if they realized the wall was moveable they'd have to start from the beginning.

Sam hastily continued down the path.

**.o0o.**

Castiel had no idea where Meg was leading them. The only aid she and Ardor had managed to acquire before their escape was a rather weak flashlight and two backpacks of food. From the torch shot a dull, yellow beam of light that was suffocated by the tunnel's thick, unparalleled darkness before it was able to make contact with the walls or floor. Occasionally, it would snag a stalagmite, but typically it just illuminated the shocking amount of dust suspended in the air.

The run was exceedingly difficult with Claire in his arms. She was rather heavy, but the slowing of her blood flow offered some sort of comfort. That, and it was almost nice to have the aching of his arms and back to focus on. Every few minutes, he would almost forget about the other tributes that were lurking in these very same shadows.

Almost.

Beside him, Ardor was wheezing with a fury. Castiel looked down at where he knew the child most likely was, but he was only met by more of the black abyss. Still, he could imagine the boy's mortified expression. Castiel looked away, trying to suppress the terrible vision.

"Hurry up!" Meg hissed back at them. Castiel hoisted Claire further into his grasp and pushed forward.

Meg was nearly sprinting now, her feet clacking against the uneven ground. Even if he didn't know where they were going, she sure did. Castiel watched as the flashlight's beam bobbed up and down with each stride.

But then, it disappeared.

The clacking of boot against rubble stopped as the light twisted into darkness.

"Stop!" Meg screamed from in front of him. Castiel searched for the noise he knew all too well, the noise that would mean another tribute's knife in her gut, the noise Albert had made, but he didn't find it. Instead, a bitter fear seeped into the small cavern.

Castiel froze just in time to feel the tips of his boot leave the solid ground. Meg, who had stopped a few feet behind him, managed to grab a fistful of his jacket and hold him and Claire upright. The second he felt steady again Castiel, squeezing Claire even closer to him, let himself fall backward onto the solid floor, his erratic heart leaping from his chest.

"What happened?" Claire stirred from within his grasp, reminding him that what he was carrying was indeed human. Her voice was nearly inaudible behind the ringing of his own heartbeat.

A loud crash erupted around him as the flashlight made contact with the ground. Wherever it had fallen, its journey had been more than the 5 or 6 feet it should have taken to hit the ground.

"It's a chasm," Meg specified, her voice almost as shaky as Castiel felt, "By the sound of… It has to be at least a hundred feet."

Castiel gulped as he imagined what it must be like to fall that far, how he would look when he met the solid ground once more. Fear and disgust welled up inside of him as he imagined the scene; the scene that had nearly been reality.

Ignoring him, Meg collected herself. "Come on, we'll double back and take a different path."

Castiel heard her turn and Ardor scurry along after her. Grabbing Claire up off the ground, Castiel resumed walking behind them as if nothing had happened.

**.o0o.**

For the first time, Dean was able to breathe. Collapsing to his knees, he exhaled. The sharp pain of the gravel and stone embedded in his knees raced through his body.

Looking down at the blackened rocky floor, Dean let his exhausted mind run wild. His whole body felt as if it was washing away with each breath; trickling into the caverns that now housed about ten or twelve terrified tributes. In his 18 years, he had never felt so disjointed. So depressed. Today he had taken two innocent lives, two friends, two sons. He had ended their potentially promising lives. He had stolen their futures.

Behind him, he could hear Madu and Michael bickering at the top of their lungs. The clashing and clattering of metal against rock rang out as they dug through the Cornucopia's contents. Lace – he could see out of the corner of his eye – was sitting cross-legged by a young dead girl. The thick cloud of dirt that had risen from the fight was beginning to settle, dusting her icy blonde hair. The rest of the dust cloud was eerily illuminated by the luminescent Cornucopia.

"Dean!" he heard Madu beaconing him. He neither turned nor reacted to her vicious voice, but rather focused on the low rumble of his own shaky breathing.

"Dean!" she screamed once more. Twisting his head in her direction, he caught sight of a rather large helmet barreling towards him. Just as it was about to make contact with his face, he grabbed it from the air.

"It's a flashlight. Put it on," Madu spoke in short, rapid phrases – her adrenalin overly apparent, "We're all going to look around a little so they can clean up the bodies."

Dean slowly lowered the helmet onto his head and flipped the small switch on its side. An industrial strength light burst from his forehead, filling the room. Madu and Michael followed its light, disappearing into the tunnels.

Before following them, Dean looked down to face Lace.

"Are you coming?" he grumbled at the girl, unsure what tone was appropriate. Her hair – which had been violently torn from its tight bun – had fallen into her face and managed to mask any noticeable expression. He wasn't sure if it was the sounds of the caves or just his imagination, but he thought he heard her crying.

"Yes," she responded quickly.

Dean extended her hand to the girl, and she hesitantly looked up at him. Her ghostlike face was even more hollow than it had been when they had first talked; her face now ripe with tears. Grasping his wrist, she pulled herself to her feet. Together, they walked into the tunnels and away from the most unfortunate of the twenty-four tributes to the beat of eight deafening canon fires.

**.o0o.**

Lace Mason had never been underground before. The closest she had come was when her secondary school teacher had sent her into the school's basement supply room, but that had been a well lit and heavily furnished space. This system, however, seemed as if it had been carved by a giant deranged animal. Even with Dean's light, the passageways surprised her. Perhaps it had to do with her racing heart or scrambling conscience, but every inch of her seemed off balance.

For the other careers, though, she put on the most collected face she could muster. Dean had caught her crying, but he had seemed at least somewhat empathetic in the training center. Maybe he didn't care.

Wringing her hands together, Lace tried to force away her memory of the bloodbath. She knew she had wiped it away, but she could feel the blood on her hands, on her jacket, and on her neck. Frantically, she batted at it, but to her dismay her hand only made contact with skin and sweat.

"What's that?" Michael asked out of nowhere, freezing in place.

"What?" Madu responded, jumping into action.

"I heard something," Michael stated heavily.

Lace gulped as her eyes flew to the shadows. Was there another tribute among them? Would they attack her and the others? Would they die trying? Would it be at her hand?

Suddenly, as Dean turned to face Michael directly, Lace noticed something. A very small bit of reflective material darted away from the light. A boot. Her breath clung to her throat as she watched the shoe disappear into the cavern wall. It was escaping them.

Her first instinct was to shout to the others, to tell them that a tribute was getting away. Stepping forward, Lace raised her arm to grab their attention.

A strangled gasp escaped her lips as her hand fell into the light. Blood coated the appendage, dripping down her wrist and soaking her jacket's thick sleeve. Within a second, the vision was gone, and from the corner of her eye she could see Michael and Madu turn to face her completely clean outstretched hand.

"Lace?" Michael asked carefully, noticing her obvious fear.

"I – I –" her voice shook as she hurriedly jammed her hand into her jacket pocket, "Nothing. Sorry."

As Michael scoffed at her behavior, Lace stole a glance at Dean. His face was partially lit by his own light, but it was all she needed. His expression was solemn, and – if she wasn't mistaken – aimed directly at the spot where the boot had disappeared.


	12. Nine and Ten

The longer Sam spent in the caves, the easier navigation became. Despite the fact that the path was rugged and uneven, it was much more organized than the mines. Where the mines had taken sharp turns or unexpected stops due to worker's random schedules or altered assignments, these tunnels kept going. While it had probably been unplanned, Sam could tell that every foot of this system had been carefully charted before construction.

After a while, he even began to feel safe walking down the tunnel. The careers hadn't followed him through the wall, and he had yet to come across a connecting path, so the only way a tribute could possibly come at him was from the front. And even then, they would either be blind like him, or their light would give them away long before they were able to notice him.

Plus, if he had counted the canon fires that had echoed against the cavern walls correctly, eight tributes had died in the bloodbath. That left fifteen on his trail, excluding Maria and Rod. A part of him wondered how sincere Maria's peace offering had been, or if she had even meant for it to go both ways. Sam knew better than to count on it.

Attempting to make the most of his transient safety, Sam strategized. Every inch of his body protested his early flight from the bloodbath. All of the other tributes had tried to acquire at least some sort of provision before leaving, Sam had seen it. Sure, some of them had died in their efforts, but Sam's close escape from the careers had given him a strange sense of power and ability he never could have imagined before the games. He had bested the best, so he didn't doubt for a second that he could have grabbed at least a flashlight or a tin of water.

Water. The back of his throat burned at the mere mention of it. He had gone this long without water before, but in these tunnels the dust and rubble in the air that clung to the interior of his throat was practically choking him. He needed something to wash it down, and he needed it fast.

Eventually, he came to what seemed like a fork in the tunnel. After a hasty and blind inspection, he found that there were indeed two separate paths. The one on the left took a quick incline, whereas the other to the right sloped downwards.

If he chose to go left, it was much more likely that he would find a way out of the system, if that was even possible. He had no clue how deep the Capitol had placed them underground, let alone if they had even created a portion of the arena above sea level.

Right, on the other hand, would probably lead to water. This plan also involved a good deal of assumptions, more than Sam would like to admit. What if the Gamemakers had built some sort of drainage system to counteract gravity's natural pooling system? Not to mention the fact that the deeper he went underground, the more likely it would be that he'd hit an area without the necessary oxygen to survive.

But the scratching in Sam's throat momentarily overpowered any reasonable decision making.

Following the right path, he continued. Keeping an ear out, he listened for any hint or sign that he was nearing a hazard. The only thing he could hear was the small scattering of rodents – a noise which seemed to grow louder and louder as he progressed. Sam had never liked rodents, but it was nice to know something was able to survive here.

And as much as he hated the thought of eating such a foul creature, his stomach was beginning to cramp. For all he knew, he wouldn't see another animal for days. Leaning down, Sam removed his shoe once more. He could practically see them, the hundred some mice or rats scurrying from place to place. Surely he could manage to kill one or two with his own brute strength.

Slowly and carefully, he lowered himself onto the ground. Within seconds, the rodents became accustomed to the new mass. Sam could feel them on him, around him.

There had to be hundreds.

Sam closed his eyes and willed away his fear and disgust. _This is for your survival_, he thought to himself over and over. Concentrating on his hunger – that which he knew would only sharpen with time – he raised the shoe above his head. Then, once his hand had reached its peak, he brought the shoe down with all of the force he could muster. Screams and squeals replaced the animals' low chatters as they fled in every direction. A few even managed to drive their fangs into Sam's skin before disappearing down the tunnels.

As Sam leapt to his feet, his hands flew to the places where they had bit him. Instantly, he knew they were far from normal creatures. An excruciating fire spread throughout his body within milliseconds, stemming from where they had made contact. _They are mutts_, he thought to himself in dismay. A type of mole with a toxic bite: he had never heard of them specifically, but he didn't doubt for a second that they existed.

He could count four bites; one on his neck, one on his torso, and another two on his left arm. The poison spread throughout his body faster than any wildfire or flood, tearing at his skin and veins as it went. His eyes and throat swelled almost completely shut as he felt his knees make contact with the ground once more. Scrambling, he felt the ground for his kill. Only two. Two once round rodents approximately the size of his clenched fist. As disappointing as it was, they were more than he was used to.

Sam stumbled down the cavern; he could feel the pain from the bites escalate. He didn't know how much noise he was making as he crashed into the walls, but he could tell that it was more than he should be making.

His mind grew hazy as he fought to continue. At one point, he thought he heard a canon in the distance. A chortle escaped his dazed lips as he remembered the other tributes. Had they met similar fates?

Soon, the path opened up to another large room like that which held the Cornucopia. Here, Sam allowed himself to fall to the ground, his knees quickly punctured by the rough terrain. The two rodents he had killed slid from his hands and onto the ground as his mind grew black.

His head hit the ground with a tremendous clatter.

Another canon fired.

**.o0o.**

The group was beginning to slow. Ardor's wheezing had risen volumes since the near disaster at the chasm. It had gotten to the point where his whistles and gasps reminded Castiel of the twenty-foot machines he would work with at the power plant. He knew it couldn't be healthy.

"Can you be any quieter?" Meg eventually snapped at the young boy. He never responded, but he seemed to muffle his face. At least he tried to make himself a bit quieter.

Claire's breathing was noisy as well, but she, on the other hand, hadn't moved since the chasm. Castiel pulled her closer, his back tearing and straining under her weight. As long as she was breathing – even if it was labored or loud – she was alive.

And he'd hold on.

Thinking back, Castiel remembered meeting Claire. The way he had nearly passed out on the train, but she had helped him. And how had he repaid her? He had denounced the idea that he would ever help her or ally with her. And now, now he was holding on even though every fiber of his being screamed to let go.

"I think we're getting closer to water," Ardor whispered, his voice whistling musically with each word.

"How do you know?" Meg inquired, her voice void of any sentiment or happiness.

"We're going downhill," Ardor replied quickly, "Water will flow downhill and collect at the bottom."

Knowing full well that no one could see him, Castiel nodded in understanding. The statement seemed logical, but for some reason, Castiel didn't let it get his hopes up. The boy could always be wrong.

Through a mix of exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger, his mind grew slower as they continued. The complete and total emptiness of nourishment and intelligent thoughts reminded him of home. In the plants, he and the others would work for hours without breaks or water. He was used to surviving malnourished.

But then again, they had only been in the arena for a few hours. He was used to working much longer with much less, so then why was he already so empty? Perhaps it had to do with the week or so that he had spent at the Capitol. Yeah, that made sense. He had fallen from routine, and this was shocking him back into it.

But still, something felt remarkably strange. Castiel attempted to breathe in deeply, but his chest was unable to expand enough to support the action. At home he was used to the sensation – it meant that oxygen was scarce. And yet something felt foreign. When the air got this way at home, he would just have to inhale more frequently to make up for it. Here in the tunnels, it felt different. When he tried to breathe faster, nothing happened. He just grew fainter and fainter.

"Meg? Ardor?" He tried to cry out. His words were hushed and met by dead silence.

Not even footsteps.

Castiel struggled to remember the last time he had even heard the others move. A deep, uneasy feeling overtook him. In his arms, even Claire's breaths were growing shallow and infrequent.

There wasn't any oxygen.

Castiel stumbled backward. He needed to escape. He needed to save Claire.

As he made his escape, Castiel fell into a strange sort of haze. His feet could barely run, his mind could barely move. The darkness's thick hands closed around his throat, dragging him into the abyss. He needed to get out of this place, but how far would he have to run? How long had they been walking deeper and deeper into this horrible area?

As he pushed on, his mind flew to the others. Meg and Ardor, where were they? He hadn't heard them fall or turn back, but they definitely weren't moving when he had fled. Castiel pushed all thought of them away. He wasn't supposed to worry about them. Just himself.

Himself and Claire.

Within seconds, the tunnel was spinning. His eyes twisted his view until he was running toward four different passageways. Or was it six? Closing his eyes, he pushed forward.

The musty air hit him like a wall. Rushing into his lungs, he screamed for more. Never before had he felt so whole, so healthy. Suddenly, as if they were miles away and fast approaching, he heard Claire's rasping breaths return as well.

"We're okay, Anna, we're okay," Castiel's eyes stung as he opened them once more, his whole head heavy with oxygen. Lowering her to the floor, Castiel sat and attempted to regulate his breathing.

A canon fired, shaking the entire arena. Castiel wondered if Meg or Ardor had fallen prey to the trap.

Suddenly, a body fell beside him panting furiously. Castiel leapt away from the unnamed tribute, clutching at the spear Meg had given him. After a few minutes, he calmed. He could tell who it was.

"Meg?" he reached out to find her in the darkness, but she quickly swatted him away. Her hands were wet where they hit Castiel.

"Stop," was all she said as she dropped her pack and knife onto the ground with a clatter, "Ardor's gone. He – he suffocated."

Her voice fell flat with the news, but Castiel could still hear her surprisingly calm breathing. She hadn't really known or cared for Ardor, but he was still a part of her plan. Castiel would have expected her to act more upset by his passing.

"Come on," Meg muttered after a short period of silence, "Without Ardor we can move faster."

Against his body's screams of protest, Castiel stood and picked up Claire. It was only a few hours into the game, but he had nearly died three times.

Another canon fired.

At least he had done better than 10 of the others.

**.o0o.**

The careers stood in the otherwise deserted Cornucopia, surrounded by piles of gear, food, and weapons. Madu stood on top of a mountain of crates, a crowbar in her hands. Together, her and Michael were beginning to organize the supplies into two piles, "helpful" and "unhelpful". Staring quizzically at a strange looking blue-green rain boot that she clasped in her trembling hands,Lace sat cross legged on the ground beside the "unhelpful" pile. She looked so much smaller than she had in the Training Center, so much weaker.

Dean, on the other hand, leaned against the mouth of the glowing Cornucopia with a general aura of ease and nonchalance. From here, he could make out two of the four separate cave systems. His eyes wandered to the one which they had entered earlier. Somewhere in those tunnels was a rather lucky tribute.

A tribute he had let go free.

Twice now he had made that mistake. He knew that somewhere his father had seen his actions. He knew the cameras had caught him starring at the boy with the blue eyes, or the tribute that had escaped through the wall. They'd make a spectacle of how soft Dean Winchester was, and his father's good name would be pulled down by that. Even now – even when he had convinced himself that his father had forsaken him – his opinion still haunted his thoughts.

Dean winced as he turned back to the others. Madu's normal angry expression had been replaced by a furious one.

"There isn't any water!" she shouted defensively, noticing Dean's judgmental eyes. Leaping from her perch, she screamed a shrill, enraged scream.

"What do you mean, there isn't any?" Michael asked stupidly.

"I mean all of these bottles and canteens are completely empty!" Madu's eyes burned with a terrifying fire as she advanced on Michael, throwing an empty canteen down at his feet.

"They can't all be empty," Michael said, a bit of panic showing in his voice as he crossed his beefy arms in front of his chest. Lace turned to him wide-eyed, begging him to back down.

"Well, they are!" Madu retorted, continuing her tantrum and shoving a crate to the ground with all of her might.

"Guys, calm down," Dean heard himself say as he stepped into their escalating argument, "They wouldn't make an arena without any water at all. We'll just have to find some."

Madu, Michael, and Lace all stared up at him, each with a completely different expression. Lace bit her lip and attempted to back into the tip of the Cornucopia unnoticed.

"Yes," Madu said with a rather condescending tone as she ignored Lace, "but aren't we supposed to have just a bit more than everyone else? You know, having conquered the Cornucopia and whatnot?"

"Yeah," Dean said, running his fingers through his hair anxiously as Madu and Michael's eyes bore into him, "But unlike the others we have lights and weapons. We'll be able to find it much faster than the others. Not to mention all the fruit that's here. We should be able to stay hydrated on those for a while."

"And, um," Lace's squeaky, terrified voice rang out from the back of the Cornucopia, "And we have this."

Startled by her sudden inclusion in the conversation, everyone spun to face her. Motioning with her finger, Lace signaled for them to join her in the back.

What they found was a large collection of scribbles and curves carved into a large plaque on the back wall of the Cornucopia. Dean wasn't sure, but he thought it looked like a map.

"Is it a map?" Michael asked, voicing Dean's thoughts almost immediately.

The group gathered around the plaque, trying to make it out. Lace seemed to understand it the best, considering she was the only person who wasn't sporting the same slack-jawed expression.

"I think those are water," Lace pointed to three incredibly smooth masses that overlapped the scratchy paths. Dean nodded in agreement, even though he knew he had no idea.

"That way's the fastest," Madu said, running her fingers along one of the paths. "Lace, do you think you can remember it?"

Lace nodded anxiously, never taking her eyes off of the map.

Utilizing the time to pack a good deal of the necessities, the group gave her a few minutes to memorize the twists and turns. Most of the time, the careers camped out at the Cornucopia, leaving in pairs to hunt tributes. That was what Dean had expected, anyways. But as he picked the nicest looking pack and began to stuff it full of first aid, food, and supplies, he pushed the belief away. It had been childish to expect the games to be anything but random.

"Come on," Michael barked from the mouth of the structure, the largest pack available strapped to his back. He carried in his hands a rather terrifying looking weapon unknown even to Dean. He assumed it was some sort of pick or drill.

One thing he knew for sure was that he didn't want to know what Michael intended to do with it.

Making sure that the floodlight was aimed directly at Michael as he switched it on, Dean fastened his helmet back on. For the few seconds that Michael cringed silently under the light's blast, Dean felt strange. He hated Michael, but he didn't particularly have a reason.

They left through a different tunnel this time, Lace in the lead. Dean didn't like what the games had done to her. She was jumpy and jittery, and from time to time, it seemed as if she had seen a ghost. Growing up watching past games, he had seen boys and girls get like this before.

They never lasted long.

The group walked for a while. The caves were eerie under his light, reminding him of the broken down medical clinic back in District 2. There was something worse about the tunnels though. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that, at any moment, a homicidal teenager could attack from the shadows.

Dean snorted darkly.

From up ahead, Lace heard him. Turning, she seemed momentarily overjoyed by his sick happiness. _Lace is far too nice for a career_, Dean thought to himself. He wondered what it would be like for a girl like her to win. For a girl as trembling and terrified and scarred as her to walk free in her district once more, pretending nothing had happened.

Disgust welled inside of him. People like that did walk free, he had seen them. He had known them. And he had worshiped them like idols, like gods. He had aspired to be like them, like his father. And he might just get his wish – the games had just begun.

Suddenly, a canon fire exploded throughout the caves. Michael and Madu barely reacted to the earsplitting explosion, but Dean could tell Madu was making an attempt to hide her excitement. One less tribute.

Lace, on the other hand, leapt into the air like a horse that had been branded. Screaming as if she had been shot, she broke out into a run. Panic flooded Dean as he watched her lose control of her actions, of her mind.

"Lace!" he screamed, moving to chase after her. He could hear Michael and Madu's footsteps behind him, but he didn't care. Lace had been the one to approach him specifically during training. She was kind and caring, but most of all – he trusted her. He couldn't lose her, of all people.

The whole cave seemed to shake as he chased after her. His light shook uncontrollably with each of his broad strides. He didn't care, he just kept his eyes focused on Lace.

"Lace! Dean! Stop!" he heard Madu shout from behind him. Tripping slightly, he managed to stop himself just in time.

Just in time to watch her disappear.

His light illuminated Lace as she fell. Flowing like beautiful white blonde satin, her long blonde hair shot up into the air. She didn't scream or flail as she went, but instead she fell with a peaceful and serene sort of grace. Suddenly, she was transformed into a lifeless porcelain doll, dropped from the hand of a child. In less than a second, she was gone.

Just as Dean had anticipated.

The remaining careers stood a thick, shocking silence collecting around them.

"How are we supposed to find the water now?" Michael cried over the canon fire.

And in one swift spin, Dean punched him square in the nose – channeling every feeling in his body into the blow. Michael fell to his knees, blood spilling from his face. Madu stood horrified, a look of pure shock consuming her suddenly childish face.

"Shut the fuck up!"

Shaking his probably bruised fist, Dean turned back to look down the chasm which had swallowed Lace. Even though he was still with the others, he suddenly felt completely alone.


	13. Day Is Done

Even though he couldn't see it, Castiel could feel the pitch-black tunnels begin to blur as he stumbled down their gravelly pathways. After hours of running and wheezing he had finally traded the feeling of fear, pain, and thirst for a powerful exhaustion. Sleepy, foggy air clouded around him like the smog from District 5, burning his eyes and suffocating his senses. The dark world around him shook with each step, pulling him into a new realm of consciousness.

Underneath him, he could still hear Claire's breath, a powerful and constant reminder of why he kept moving. Sure, they were shallow and infrequent, but they were there.

Castiel's stomach rolled at the thought of her. There was no foreseeable way for her to survive through the night in these caves – especially without water. Hell, in her condition she probably wouldn't have even made it back in Opificina, even with her particularly wealthy status.

He cringed at the realization that her death further ensured his life. In the back of his mind, Castiel could hear Claire's request from training, "If it comes down to it, I want you to kill me." She had spoken so strongly, so surely. She had given him permission to end her suffering; she had expressed that she didn't want to survive.

And yet he held onto her.

"Stop," Meg called from the haze. Castiel stopped as she had requested, his body shaking from the uncanny timing of her words.

"What?" he asked, barely aware that this deeper, emptier voice came from his own mouth.

"It's just –" Meg paused to release a violent and enraged growl. The sound of her voice ricocheted off of his confused ears, rocking the tunnel. "How do we even know this path leads to water? I know I'm exhausted, and with you carrying that dead weight all this time, you can only feel worse! We need rest, we need water, and _I need to win_!"

Castiel stood firm as Meg rattled off her list of troubles. She no longer seemed conscious of the amount of noise they were making or how close the other tributes could potentially be. Honestly, it terrified him, and yet he stood as unwavering and strong as possible.

"I think we should stop," he nearly whispered, Meg's passion intimidating, "We have a bit of food in our bags, that should hold us over long enough for an adequate rest."

Although he couldn't see it, Castiel could feel Meg's glare through the dark fog. There was no doubt in his mind that she knew he was right, but that didn't mean she wouldn't fight him.

"Fine," was all she said. A loud thud erupted throughout the cavern as she threw herself onto the floor in contempt.

Slowly, Castiel joined her, making sure to remain gentle as he lowered Claire to the ground.

"Claire, we're taking a break, do you want anything to eat?"

Silence.

"Claire?"

Castiel tried to suppress panic in his voice as he cupped the young girl's face. His mind flashed to the chasm and the tunnel. Not again.

"Meg, be quiet!" he ordered as he leapt into action, scrambling against the floor's loose rocks. The sound of her riffling through the bags instantly disappeared.

One small, shallow, rugged, empty breath emerged through the deafening silence. She was breathing. For a few seconds, Castiel allowed himself to feel some relief.

"What's wrong?" Meg stammered through the darkness. A sort of quiet, reserved nature had consumed her normally harsh voice. Castiel assumed she was trying to be kind, for it was the nicest he had ever heard her sound. For the first time, he wondered how obvious his emotions seemed to her.

"She's not – she's not conscious," he attempted to gasp, his voice shaking with the unsteady beating of his terrified heart. The panic was starting to creep back.

His hands flew to the young girl's still fresh wounds. To his surprise, they were yet again damp with fresh blood. How long had they been bleeding this steadily? How much blood had she lost?

"Castiel?" Meg spoke once more, her voice cautious yet clear.

"Yes?" It wasn't until he tried to speak again that he felt them. Tears. Rough and unyielding, they rushed down his pale, dirty face. She couldn't die, not here, not like this. She couldn't leave him alone in this place.

Not again.

"Sometimes, things go wrong. People have accidents on the job; I guess that's normal with every district," Meg started, momentarily pulling him from his thoughts with her steady words. "Back in District 8, we climb trees for the harvest. The trees in District 8 are like nothing you've ever seen. They look like mountains spiraling into the sky with trunks as thick as a house – it's beautiful, really. But every once in a while, people lose their footing and fall. My brother fell, and, knowing him, he managed to hit every single goddamn branch on the way down. He never fell far enough to kill him, though, but he did take a branch in the leg. It bled pretty badly, but there wasn't anything we could afford that could stop it. Eventually he passed out, just like this."

Castiel just stared in the direction he knew she was sitting. A new sort of shock flooded his core as she finished her story. He had always seen Meg as a sort of inhuman machine; she was the sort of person who was meant to play these games. But now, now she was more. More than a goal oriented device.

"Thank you," he mumbled, not wanting to think much farther on the subject. His appetite was gone, as was his thirst or exhaustion.

"Come on, let's just go."

He lifted Claire's motionless form off of the cold stone floor.

**.o0o.**

The careers barreled down the tunnels at a near record speed. Occasionally, they'd stop for food, normally some sort of fruit to quench their thirst. They never stopped for long.

The group always stayed in the same formation. Michael sulked in the back, nursing a now dry bloody nose. He was practically silent, his only audible noises being his semi-sporadic grumbles of discontent. Bouncing about in a strikingly merry fashion, Madu wandered in the middle. She never seemed to tire or falter, even when they had been sprinting for what seemed like hours. Nothing could faze her, for she seemed invincible. Dean remained at least twenty feet ahead of them, even if it meant pushing himself past his limits. The others couldn't tell if his father's drive and desire to win had finally kicked in, or if he was just angry with them. They didn't care enough to investigate.

Surprisingly, neither of them would ever suspect his real reason for running. To them, it'd seem irrational. Dean ran because whenever he stopped, whenever he took his eyes off of the fast moving tunnel ahead of him, his vision was clouded with the ghost of pale grey eyes and silky blonde hair cascading down a faraway shaft.

And even in his dethatched state, Dean was the first one to hear it. The sound of a fourth set of boots click-clacking against the gravel. Another tribute was trailing their group, and honestly he was surprised no one else heard the child. They were clearly unskilled, and not too intelligent. Following a career group with shoes like these on an unfamiliar terrain like this – that's how you die.

Yet he kept his eyes focused forward, the light from the helmet aimed straight ahead. Every rock the light hit was illuminated in the same daunting mix of grey and brown. The same mix that had shone in Lace's eyes.

Just as Dean was beginning to wonder if the others would ever hear the fourth person, a bright, terrifying scream exploded around him. Hesitantly, he turned to witness the attack.

Michael was frozen just like him, a menacing glare consuming his beaten face. He didn't need to help, but it was clear that he wanted to.

Madu was on top of the fourth tribute. Yumi, the girl from District 9, struggled under Madu's unbelievably strong hold; her thick black hair was coating the floor around her as she squirmed and shouted. Swiftly, Madu produced a long, thick knife from her jacket pocket.

Dean looked away just in time, only catching the last bit of fear in Yumi's eyes as she braced herself for the inevitable blow. Cringing at the sound the knife made as it slid past Yumi's collarbone, Dean's entire body tensed. The screams were different now – higher and longer. They were no longer a cry for help, but rather an obligatory reflex. The screams escalated to a point where they began to shake the rocks in the ceiling and the walls, a thick cloud of dust and rubble gathered in the light of Dean's headlamp.

Throughout the screams, Dean could still hear the others. Michael couched roughly, the dust cloud catching in his thick throat. Madu, on the other hand, laughed. A sick cackle pierced the nauseating explosion of gasps and wails like a bell. This girl was sick, and if Dean hadn't seen it before, he could sure as hell see it now.

Another score of gushing blood and sliced bone erupted as Madu stabbed Yumi again. And again. And again. Each time, Madu aimed away from vital organs, allowing the girl's screams to continue.

"Stop! Stop!" Dean finally shouted, his stomach about to lunge through his dry mouth. He knew the Capitol's camera's were on him, on the group. For once, he didn't care. He just needed this to stop.

The screaming continued, but Michael and Madu went silent. Dean refused to look at the girl, refused to look the others in the eye. Instead, he focused on a small patch of wall next to him and glared at it angrily.

"What?" Madu asked accusingly, as if she saw nothing wrong with her actions. She obviously didn't.

"For heaven's sake, don't torture her!" he bellowed at the wall, unable to sound as angry as he wanted.

The others remained silent, clearly taken aback by his outburst. Welling like a fire in his throat, a mix of rage and fear bellowed inside his stomach. No matter how angry or upset he got, he could never push it too far. Even if he no longer cared about the Capitol's opinions of him, Michael and Madu could still turn on him at any second. If this exchange had taught him anything, it'd be that he definitely didn't want that.

"Just get it over with, already! There's no need to do this – you're acting completely insane!" he added over Yumi's screams. He couldn't believe his life had come to this point, rationalizing with psychopaths.

"What did you think we were going to be doing here, Dean? Isn't this what you volunteered for?" Madu whined accusingly. Dean wouldn't admit it, but she had a point.

"Not this," he lied through clenched teeth, "This is insane. Now stop."

"You do it," Michael interjected, stepping into Dean's path with a cruel look in his dark eyes.

Dean froze, a hundred responses rushing into his mind. He thought about what his father would say. "The Gamemakers love a violent killer." Hadn't his father spoken those exact words in the train station? Is this what he meant?

Still, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Pulling his eyes away from the wall, he forced himself to look at Yumi. Blood was pooling around her convulsing body. He couldn't look away now, his eyes frozen on her form.

"No, Michael," he managed to force out, holding in his mortified breath. With a disgusted stutter, he managed to force out just a bit more, "This is Madu's kill."

And with a grunt and one last sharp scream it was.

"You'll get the next one," Madu giggled darkly as she stepped between Michael and Dean, completely unaware of the tension between them. Dean tried to ignore the blood that covered her neck and arms as they continued down the path.

**.o0o.**

When Sam opened his eyes he was met by the most powerful light he had ever seen. Blues and purples and greys burst from every direction, burning his eyes as they barreled into him. It was strikingly unreal – heaven-like, almost. Could it be heaven?

Moving to shield his eyes, Sam realized just how sore his body was. Surely this couldn't be heaven if he felt like this. Every joint in his body seemed to be stuffed with weights, keeping him on the solid rock floor.

Slowly, Sam managed to pull himself into an upright position. Empty and faint from dehydration and whatever poison those rodents had released into his bloodstream, his body swayed as he sat. Somewhere in the distance, signaling the end of the day, the anthem began to play. He needed to get his eyes working as soon as possible.

Finally, they adjusted enough. A rush of astonishment and wonder hit him head on as he took in his surroundings. In Sam's hallucinogenic state, he had found his way to a cavern nearly twice the size as the one that had held the Cornucopia. About ten feet in front of him, the smooth stone floor transformed into an eerily still underground lake. The water was as black and glassy as an igneous rock, appearing strikingly solid before him.

But even with his dehydration, that wasn't what amazed him. Where the rugged cavern walls had once stood now pranced thousands of tiny lights. Together, they joined to form giant screens covering the cavern walls. On them was painted the Capitol's seal, its image reflecting off of the lake's still surface. It was the death recap, but instead of occupying its normal spot in the nonexistent sky, it consumed every inch of wall, illuminating every corner of the caves.

The first face to appear on the walls was named Lace Mason, a hauntingly beautiful girl from District 1. The career pack was damaged, and it was only the first day. Perhaps he had a chance after all.

As face after face appeared and lit the room with their own unique set of lights and colors, Sam's emotions welled. Neither Rod nor Maria flashed past, meaning that somewhere in the tunnel system they were still alive. But even through his personal happiness, he couldn't help but feel a little sick. Eleven faces – that made up nearly half of the tributes.

Maybe the games were harder than he had anticipated.

As the recap waned, Sam made sure to make himself familiar with the terrain around him. Most of the cavern was occupied by the lake, but a few large rocks protruded from its surface. One of them was located on the shoreline about 50 yards away from one of the two entrances to the cavern.

Completely unaware of which entrance he managed to stumble through, Sam decided that it was best to remain in the cavern for a while. It was unlikely that the Gamemakers would try and scare him out anytime soon, what with so many deaths on the first day. They'd want the games to last.

Picking up his two-rodent-strong kill, he made his way towards the boulder. Forcing himself to jog, he hurried. Soon, the lights would go out and he wouldn't be able to see a thing. His joints screamed in protest, but he pushed on.

Behind the rock, there was a very small, very damp cove. It was invisible from both entrances, so Sam decided it was a good enough shelter for now. Shoving his oversized body in, he pulled his knees to his chest.

In a few minutes, the lights disappeared. Darkness swallowed him, and it was soon followed by a dauntingly cold lakeside air.

But he had managed to make it through the first day.


	14. Loss of an Ally

"Do you smell something funny?" Michael's voice broke through the long-lasting silence, startling a half-asleep Dean.

"What?" Madu questioned, stopping in her tracks.

But Dean didn't need to know what, he could already sense that something was off. The air was different, cleaner almost. Taking the opportunity to inhale deeply, Dean almost felt fresh again.

"It's the air," Michael clarified, breathing heavily with Dean.

"Maybe we're near the surface," Madu said excitedly, "Dean, turn off your light."

Dean obliged, not wanting to go against the others' words any more than he already had. An intense darkness engulfed them, sending shivers down Dean's spine. Throughout training, Dean had prepared for what he had once believed to be anything, but he had never trained for this.

"It's just as dark as it was before; maybe it's something else," Michael rationalized, a hint of disappointment in his rough voice.

Anxiously, Dean switched his light back on. Soon, they'd be completely dehydrated. Without water, what would they do? Would the group's bonds remain intact as each of its individuals slowly but surely gave into a crippling thirst and an eventual death? No, Dean answered himself, no, it wouldn't.

Especially not in the condition it was in.

Michael barely even looked at Dean. When he did, though, it wasn't a healthy glare. It was a look of purely terrifying rage and complete distaste that shook Dean to the very core. Michael was no longer another tribute on his side, but a predator stalking his prey.

Yet not a second went by where Dean regretted sinking his fist into the frightening boy's face. In fact, Dean wondered how he appeared to the audience when he looked at Michael, how deeply terrifying and off-putting his face had looked. His father was most likely proud of it.

"Hey guys, if you'd quit gazing into each other's eyes, I think you might be interested in the view," Madu chuckled happily, tugging on the sleeve of Dean's jacket.

When Dean turned and watched as his light fully illuminated the scene, his jaw dropping as he took it in. A vast underground lake reflected his light against every inch of the cavern. He didn't have much time to think things through, all he knew was that he needed that water.

Within seconds, the group was jogging towards the lagoon in full tow. As he lunged at the water Dean made sure to scoop up small handfuls, trying to drink slowly. Michael didn't seem to have the same idea, for he had simply thrown his head underwater.

"Um, guys?" Madu said slowly, "Now that we have water, what're we going to do next?"

A surprisingly thoughtful look on his face, Michael pulled his head above the surface just in time to catch her message.

"Hunt some kids, I guess?" He stated as if it was a question. His mind flashing to Yumi, Dean shuddered at the thought of killing another tribute. The blood and gore poured through his memory as a wave of nausea welled his gut.

"Something wrong, Dean?" Madu asked mockingly, her hands on her childish hips.

"No, I'm just thinking about it. How are we supposed to hunt down here? I never had any training in a cave system," Dean stumbled through his excuse, and he could tell the others noticed.

"Yeah, well, I never had _any_ training, dumbass," Madu giggled girlishly.

"Wait," Michael said, putting his arm out to stop Madu. "Did you hear that?"

**.o0o.**

"Shit," Meg grumbled as they stared down at the career group. "Well fuck me."

Castiel held Claire close to his chest as the group jogged toward the water. No, as the group jogged towards the_ lake_. It was the first liquid he had _seen_ since the games had begun, and hell, it was the first thing he had seen. His eyes took a while to adjust to the light, but his throat never adjusted to the thirst.

"We need to get down there or we're going to die," Meg whispered frantically, her hands obviously shaking. It was the first time Castiel had had the opportunity to look at them, and now he didn't want to. As much as he tried to ignore it, Meg's hands remained covered in dried blood.

_ It's probably Ardor's_, he thought to himself. Pushing away the thought, he tried to breathe. Meg wouldn't do that, she was the one who recruited Ardor.

She was the one who had recruited him.

"We can't get down there," he said as quietly as he could, trying to stifle his thoughts. It was true. Sure, the careers were a person short, but they were still heads and shoulders stronger than him and Meg.

"We have to," Meg insisted harshly, grabbing onto Castiel's jacket. "It isn't up for discussion."

"How?" he added, pushing her bloody hand off of his collar "I have Claire and even if we were both rested and hydrated, we'd never be able to take them."

Meg squinted at him, her mind clearly working in overdrive.

"But we have the element of surprise," she said, turning back to face the careers.

Castiel sighed. He'd never be able to persuade her, and he'd never get out of a fight alive. This was a suicide mission, there was no question about it. The only question was whether or not he wanted to go.

"Can I leave Claire here, you know, until we get back?" Castiel asked, his voice suddenly childish.

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Meg shooed him away.

Castiel backed away from Meg and into a darkened corner. Carefully, he set Claire down and brushed her hair out of her face. He hadn't been able to see it before, but her face had become creepily pale, translucent. It drew tears to his eyes.

"I'll be right back, Claire," he whimpered to his unconscious friend. "I'll be right back."

**.o0o.**

"I swear I heard something," Michael insisted, a bit of anger breaking through. Dean refused to look at him, but Madu didn't seem to express the same fears.

"It's probably just the water. I wonder how many fish are in this thing," she said with a sort of child-like wonder.

Dean stared blankly at the lake as he dipped his fifth canteen into the water. Jamming the full container into his bag, he sighed. This bag will be a bitch to carry now.

"I swear I heard something, and no it wasn't a fish," Michael barked as he leapt to his feet. "I guess I'm going to have to investigate alone."

"Uh, I'll go with you," Dean muttered. If the two of them were going to have to spend the rest of the games together, he should start to patch up their alliance as soon as possible.

"Fine, whatever," Michael said with discontent.

But Dean didn't get the chance. Just as he rose to his feet, a loud whooshing noise shook the cave. Dean squinted at the fast approaching object, not realizing what it was until it embedded itself in his shoulder.

The scream escaped his lips before he had time to process the burning, searing pain. Hesitantly, Dean looked down at the five inch dagger that protruded from his right shoulder. Grabbing at the hilt frantically, he tore it from his body with one swift motion. He couldn't help but scream again as his blood surged from the wound.

Michael and Madu had already run off, weapons at hand. They had left him to die, most likely. Was he going to die?

_No_, his father's voice appeared in his mind. _No, you won't, boy._

Dean shook himself, his father voice an unwanted occurrence. Holding his knife in his good arm, he closed his eyes. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, the pain would go away for a moment or so.

Forcing his eyes shut, an eerie sound filled the air. Wings. Something was flying. Hundreds of somethings were flying.

**.o0o.**

Bats. Millions of them. The swarmed from the ceiling, awoken by Dean's scream. Screeches and screams echoed the cavern, some from the bats and some from the tributes. Castiel stood frozen at the mouth of the cave completely terrified.

Michael, the beefy tribute from District 1, was barreling towards him, a murderous look on his face. Castiel couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he could only wait to die.

Growing up, Anna had always been open with him about death. Their entire family had died one by one, and he had even grown accustomed to it. A person couldn't walk down the street without seeing another who was either sick or dying, and he had lived knowing he couldn't help them. Once he started work, it became almost strange to go a week without watching someone collapse on the job. Death was everywhere, and there was no escaping it.

But surprisingly, he had never thought about his own death. Back in the district, his life expectancy was probably somewhere in the mid thirties, but here, it was considerably shorter. As the career charged towards him, he'd probably put it at about sixty more seconds.

And then, something strange happened. Someone, somewhere decided to give him a few more minutes. A swarm of bats descended upon the career, covering him like a thick fog. Castiel let out a gasp as he was released from his frozen position, from his frozen fate.

Somewhere across the cavern, they were covering someone else as well. Madu or Meg, probably. Castiel couldn't afford to watch, he had to get out of here.

Stumbling back into the tunnels, Castiel's heartbeat sped. He searched wildly for Claire, scraping his hands against the jagged cave walls.

"Hey!"

Castiel jumped at Meg's voice. He was having another panic attack, he could tell. Everything was blurring, and his heart was beginning to feel like a bird's. At least Meg was here now.

"Meg!" he yelled back, relief flooding his soul. Maybe they _would_ get out of this intact.

Meg ran towards him, and suddenly his relief flushed away. It was that look, the same look Michael had given him. They locked eyes, and the look remained. She wasn't here to reunite the group, she was here to eradicate it.

Extending her knife, she prepared for the kill. Castiel was about to pass out, but his mind wouldn't let him. He knew what was coming. He was about to die on live television; he was about to die in front of Anna.

It happened in what could only be described as slow motion, and Castiel knew the audience would be just as surprised as he was. He came out of know where, a burning light blasting from his forehead. Castiel barely had time to process his appearance, let alone his actions.

Dean Winchester, the tribute from District 2, appeared. Blood covered his shoulder, and he was still obviously bleeding as he approached. He didn't look like the others who had ran towards him armed, but rather he looked determined. For once, Castiel didn't feel like he needed to picture his own death.

Instead, he witnessed along with the rest of Panem as Dean's bloody knife plunged into Meg's stomach. Dean had run right past him, right past a perfectly open target and had attacked an armed and dangerous tribute.

And as Dean pulled the knife from his third kill, he even turned to face him with a small, weak smile.

Castiel crumpled to the floor completely unconscious.


	15. Showstopper

A ghostly silence flooded the cavern as the boy with the blue eyes collapsed onto the gravelly floor. Somewhere in the distance, the deafening squeaking of a thousand bats was slowly dying down to a low chatter. Soon, the Careers would be free of their clutches. Free to find Dean and this unconscious boy waiting exposed in the caverns.

Dean's mind flashed to Yumi; the screams she had made in her last moments echoing in his eardrums and the way her blood had pooled around her struggling body plaguing his vision. When the Careers came, they wouldn't kill this boy calmly. No, Dean knew much better than that. If anything, it'd be worse this time.

And he'd have to be the one to do it.

Alternative plans rushed into his mind like an unstoppable tsunami. He could kill the boy now while he was still unconscious. But how would the others react? They had told him directly that he had to kill the next tribute they encountered with the same tenacity as Madu. His career status had already been hanging by a thread, so he knew what another betrayal would result in: blood.

Another plan.

He could run. Sprint for miles through the caves until the Careers were far behind him. Besides, he had enough water in his bag to last him for a couple of days. He could make it back to the Cornucopia and find a different lake or stream, a different source of food and water. But then what? Then he'd be the Careers' number one target, and he'd be all alone. His father would kill him if he had the sheer dumb luck to make it out alive. He'd be a disgrace.

Another plan.

He could hide and take on the Careers. They had most likely been stunted by the bats' attack. It was essentially a fifty-fifty shot, but he'd still be left alone and injured. And he'd still have this blue eyed boy to deal with.

"Anna?"

Dean's eyes locked on the stirring boy. Shit, he was awake. There went killing him humanely.

Then something particularly strange happened. All of the plans seemed to fly out of the window as the boy's eyes slowly focused on him. It was stunning, watching the boy's eyes reflect the light he emanated as they gained full awareness. The way his eyes blew open at the sight of Dean, with his bloody knife at hand, was truly captivating.

The boy instantly threw himself against the wall, bracing himself for an attack. The motion, while completely natural, caught Dean off guard. In all his years of training, his opponents had never faltered. They actively fought back until a victor was called. But this boy, this boy didn't.

And killing him didn't seem right.

All of a sudden, Dean was overcome by the cameras' presence. The weight of the audience, of their opinions and feelings, pressed down on him with a terrifying force. He couldn't think. He couldn't fight. He couldn't move.

And immediately, his mind cleared. This boy was innocent. Innocent like Yumi had been when Madu had torn her to shreds. Innocent like Lace had been as she had flown down that chasm. Innocent like every single tribute who had died so far in this arena.

Innocent like the child he was.

"So are you going to do it?"

The rough voice pulled him from his mind's clutches. The boy had spoken from his place up against the wall.

"What?" Dean could barely speak.

"Kill me. You're supposed to kill me now."

The boy spoke with such a certainty that he was almost condescending. Dean grabbed the back of his neck, stress welling in his palpitating bloodstream.

"I –" Dean stuttered, "I don't know if I can."

Dean could practically hear the gasps from his district, or the disappointed growl that had most likely bust from his father's downturned lips. He had gone soft, and during the Hunger Games no less.

"So you aren't going to kill me now?" the boy asked, a burst of happiness bubbling to the surface of his strict voice.

"No," Dean said, hanging his head in shame. "Look, man, I need to get away from here. The others are going to be here soon, and I just can't."

Spinning on his foot, Dean prepared to run. He needed to run, to get away from here. Maybe he could wait it out until all the innocent tributes were dead. Maybe he'd play better then.

"Wait."

Again, the voice made him jump. It was far too deep for the boy's small size or soft appearance. He turned back to meet the boy, preparing himself for the worst.

"I saw you filling canteens down by the water, may I – uh – may I have one?"

The boy extended a trembling hand. Taking a step back, Dean swayed. The gesture was so gentle and mild that it was almost alien. It did not belong here in the Games.

"I don't think I have time to get one out of the bag," Dean said quietly, perplexed by the boy's motions.

Disappointment consumed the boy's blue eyes, spreading to his face and shoulders. Dean couldn't take it.

"If you, uh, come with me I'll give you one later."

The gasps generated by that proposal were even more earth shattering than the last. Here he was, Dean Winchester, son of the famous Victor John Winchester, throwing away the game. At this point, he wasn't just defying his father and their family title, but he was defying the Capitol. And he had known Peacekeepers, he knew what they did to people who defied the Capitol.

Suddenly his tongue went dry.

Clearly, this boy was experiencing a similar thought process. Hesitantly, he pulled himself off the wall and shuffled toward the career.

"Um, Dean?" the boy nearly gasped, "I need to find my friend before we can go."

The younger tribute's deep voice cracked with his request. Dean's instincts screamed no. He didn't need this kid, he wasn't even sure if he wanted him. All he knew was that he sure as hell didn't need another.

But the way his voice had sounded, shit. Whoever this friend was, they meant a lot. And hell, Dean had already thrown his entire life away, even if he made it out of the games alive. Might as well just fuck it up that much more.

And with the help of Dean's light, Castiel and the ex-career set out into the caves to find Claire.

**.o0o.**

At another lake, nearly 5 miles away, another tribute sat. It was much more secluded, so much so that the Gamemakers hadn't even begun to anticipate someone finding it accidentally, and yet one had. In fact, the tribute had stumbled upon it in such a fortuitous way that people simply could not believe it.

"It's all too scripted," many said as they gossiped about the Games, "There's no way that Sam boy would have made it through all that without the Gamemaker's help. Clearly, they want him to win, and if they want it – it'll happen."

The rumors were only mounting. Soon, it'd become a full out riot. People would grow bored with the show, and then they'd grow bored with the Capitol.

And it'd be all Chuck's fault.

Running his hands through his jelled hair, he sighed. The rest of the Gamemakers bustled around them as they closely monitored each and every aspect of the arena. They didn't have time to worry about the public's opinion. The only thought on their minds were his orders. That was how it worked in Panem.

And what challenging orders they had been. Driving his foot into a nearby trash shoot, Chuck cursed the day that he decided to set the arena in a cave system. Every feature had to be closely monitored by his staff. It was borderline chaos.

"That'll really be a showstopper," President Snow had said when he had pitched the idea.

A showstopper… It was definitely shaping up to be just that.

He had to stop this. He needed to make it harder, and he needed to make the change immediately. Even if he was defying the Games, the Winchester boy, Dean, was already making good enough TV as it was. That one could be put off. But the boy from 12, he would need to be stopped.

"Flood it."

At first no one heard his nearly inaudible stutter. Not even pausing to observe their superior, everyone continued to hurry from place to place.

"Who is in charge of water levels?" Chuck announced again, this time in the largest, loudest voice he could muster. One man with shocking yellow eyes looked up, meeting his glance unswervingly.

"I am, Mr. Edlund," the man stated, speaking as if he was an extension of the computer in front of him.

"Flood the second lake. The one the boy from 12 is in," Chuck's voice stuck in his throat. It was against code to target a specific tribute directly, but for his sake and the sake of those under his command, it had to be done.

"How high, sir?" The man asked without any moral hesitance. He wasn't asking out of care for the tribute, but merely because he needed the information.

"To the top of the cavern, but raise it slowly enough that he'd have time to escape if he tried."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Chuck could feel his conscience beginning to scratch through the barriers he had built to conceal it. As quickly as possible, he washed it down with a swig from his flask.

And then he watched as his orders washed away the boy.

**.o0o.**

Sam awoke the same way he did every day. His first conscious thought was that he truly needed to return to sleep. It was still dark out, anyways.

But then he felt it.

Slowly but surely, an incredibly cold and unbelievably slick substance crept around his body and engulfed him like a sickly cocoon. The shock was enough to tear him from his position between sleep and awake.

Like quicksand, the water seemed to rise faster once he began to scramble away from it, and boy, did he scramble. Replacing any sort of intelligence, fear surged through his veins, and in one swift flick of the wrist, he sent his rodent-kills spiraling into the surging black water. His stomach screamed for him to follow, but even in this point of panic, he knew better.

He needed to get out.

Lunging into the water, Sam struggled to escape. Growing up in District 12, he had never actually had the opportunity to swim. Sure, there had been streams and ponds to wade in, but none of them had ever been deep enough for Sam's long limbs. He was beyond a novice.

What he felt now in the chilled water was exhilarating, and not in a good way. His clothing dragged him downwards, swallowing as much water as they could on their descent. Kicking and thrashing, he managed to keep his head above water, but that wasn't enough. The water was still rising.

Leaning forward, Sam tried to remember past games. Arenas had been placed in open water before, so what had those tributes done? Thinking back to the years he had watched the Games with Gabriel in the Distillery, he remembered a certain stroke that had seemed easy enough to repeat.

And so Sam Wesson attempted his unlikely escape.


	16. Nice and Safe

It was hard for Sam to imagine that it was merely water that surrounded him. In the darkness, he couldn't see it. He couldn't see the familiar murky liquid as it surged against his freezing body. He could only feel it as it wrapped around him, trying to pull him further into its icy body, only taste it as it rushed into his open mouth, trying to replace the air in his lungs with suffocating cold.

Only hear it as it began to lap against the cavern ceiling.

But Sam did fight it. Thrashing with all of his might, he was actually managing to move through the water. He was swimming for the very first time, but he didn't have the chance to marvel at the experience. Sam could only focus on keeping his head topside and taking in air.

What had just hours before been Sam's most important endeavor was now going to be the death of him. Fatigue pulled him under water as his unfed and generally malnourished body began to give in to the water's greedy hands. Opening his eyes underwater, Sam looked around. He was just as blind as he had been a few seconds ago, but what he saw was incredibly enlightening. Being underwater simply felt as if the world had changed its atmosphere. Sure, the water would fill his lungs and he would inevitably die, but its natural wrath would be much less terrible than the manmade sting of a knife.

Sam was at peace.

Relaxing, he felt death's hand secure itself around his upper arm. It was cold, the hand, even more cold than the ice water that had taken him. Driving its nails into his skin, Sam gasped. More water spilled into his lungs as the hand dragged him through the abyss.

And then he was topside.

The hand came down on his face with an earsplitting smack. People were yelling at one another, and the hand – no – hands were pressing down rhythmically on his chest.

"Leave him! We don't need him! He's just another tribute! We need to run!"

A canon went off through the female's screams, shaking the rocky ground underneath Sam. The hands on his chest began to move a bit faster.

Suddenly, Sam breathed. Water forced its way out of his mouth and onto the floor next to him as his lungs struggled to expand. The hands of death leapt away from his body, and Sam heard the smack of wet clothing hitting a wall.

"Goodness, Rod, look what you've done now!"

Maria, the girl from District 4, was practically screaming. Sam could hear the panic in her unusually high voice.

"I couldn't just leave him!" Rod's prepubescent tone shook with fear and weariness. "I saw him in the water, and I knew I could save him! We had made him a promise!"

Sam made an attempt to open his eyes, but what he found was sensory overload. A dull, nearly orange light was cast on the tunnel, coming from what appeared to be a rickety flashlight. As Sam opened his eyes, he saw.

With his back against the wall, Rod was breathing heavily. His thin lips were stained a deep purple from the chill of the water and his once vibrant curls were matted against his face. Maria, on the other hand, stood completely dry with his hands on her hips. Around her hips hung an incredibly bulky tool belt littered with knives, matches, and an array of other supplies.

"But now what, hmm?" Maria's voice had softened, but it still had an undeniable hostility, "Now what are we supposed to do, kill him? Wait for him to kill you?"

Rod looked down at his feet, sadness consuming his childish face.

"I'm sorry, Maria, I wasn't thinking."

A pain shot through Sam's chest as he watched a line of tears join the water on Rod's face.

"There was a girl in the water, too."

Maria's hands fell to her side, a clear act of submission. She had dropped the angry persona, a look of pure love and melancholy consuming it.

"Oh, Rod," she moved towards the boy, stopping a few inches from him, "This is the Hunger Games; you're not supposed to save people."

Rod nodded solemnly, moving his hands to cover his face.

And Maria turned toward Sam.

**.o0o.**

Running with Dean was much better than it had been with Meg. Castiel hadn't asked why, but it was increasingly clear that Dean somehow knew where he was going. Also, Dean allowed him to take breaks from the constant running. It was nice, being able to put Claire down to take a sip of water.

He wondered how long it would last.

They had found Claire rather quickly. She was still unconscious, and both Dean and Castiel had gasped at the sight of her. The vibrant girl with rosy pink cheeks had withered away in only a few hours. Now, a sick, grey ghost had taken her place.

She looked beyond dead.

But as Castiel hugged her to his chest, he could still feel the slow but steady heartbeat. She was alive, and she was breathing, and that was all that mattered now. He could cross the next bridge when he came to it.

For now, he was just trying to understand the career that was running in front of him. Castiel suspected some sort of mental break, perhaps a delusion. Maybe those bats had been mutants, and maybe they had gotten ahold of Dean before he had found him. It was only a matter of time until the boy remembered what it meant to be a career – what it meant to be in the Hunger Games.

But until then, this transient safety was good.

Soon, the bright white of Dean's light was mixed with the cool green of the Cornucopia. Dean broke from his run and began to jog towards the glowing metal structure.

"Come on, the ground on the inside is clean. You can put her down," his voice was heavy from the running, but Castiel could still hear the kindness in it. It was more disturbing than anything he had heard in the arena.

But Castiel followed him into the building. The inside of the Cornucopia resembled the storage rooms at the plant – dark and crowded. Wooden crates and plastic boxes were stacked on top of each other. Some were torn open, their contents spilt out onto the smooth, paved floor. In the back, Dean was trying to pry open a sealed plastic case.

"It says that it's a temperature controlled sleeping bag, but it won't open," Dean said with a striking nonchalance.

Castiel watched as the career forced open the box. The boy's hands were shaking, and his shoulders had grown rigid and high. It was moments like these that he cursed his inability to read people's emotions.

Laying out the sleeping bag, Dean forced a smile.

"I'll go take first watch," Dean said, the shakiness of his voice contradicting the happy look on his face.

The boy ducked outside without another word. Castiel placed Claire down on the ground, careful to make her look as natural as possible. If she were to die in here like this, it would be like she was sleeping.

Once she looked comfortable, Castiel finally took in his full surroundings. What appeared to be a map was anchored on the far wall, and he guessed that was how Dean was so sure of the tunnels. A crate of apples was pressed up against the wall next to it, and Castiel tore into it. Despite the fact that he had gone considerably longer than this without any food back in the district, he had never felt so hungry before in his life.

With his apple in hand, the boy from District 5 leaned his back against the cool wall of the Cornucopia. Soon, the exhaustion gained complete control of him, pulling him into a deep sleep.

But just before he shut his eyes, he could have sworn he heard someone crying.


	17. The Beginning

Sam didn't know what to do. He still hadn't gained total control over his lungs, and his body was mostly frozen from cold and fear. Helplessly, he dug his nails into the dusty floor and braced for the impending blow that Maria would most definitely deliver.

"Get up," Maria said, her icy blue eyes digging into Sam's.

But Sam couldn't. He hadn't even managed to eat the rodents he had captured, and he wasn't even sure what their poison had done to him. His limbs ached with malnourishment and fatigue.

Slower than he would have expected, his eyes fell to one of the shapes hanging off of Maria's belt. Tied tightly on the cloth structure rested an unbelievably large bat-like creature. From where Sam rested, it appeared to have a wingspan of around one or two feet.

He couldn't stop his mouth from watering.

"I said, get up," Maria repeated, swaying her body so that the bat fell out of sight. Once more, Sam attempted to lift himself from the ground, and once more, his arms couldn't help him.

"I can't," Sam mumbled hesitantly. It was incredibly surprising that she hadn't killed him yet, but he knew his inability to move would only make matters worse.

Oddly enough, Maria turned away from Sam and back toward her brother, an anxious look consuming her once tough face.

"Rod, can you take the canteens and go fill them up? I need to talk to Twelve alone," Maria tore two long bottles from her belt and thrust them at Rod, who grabbed them from the air clumsily.

"Yeah, sure," there was a lot of pain in Rod's voice. He knew what was coming, and so did Sam. She was sending him away so he wouldn't have to watch as –

As Maria fixed his mistake.

Rod shuffled off down the tunnel, leaving the flashlight with Maria. Sam braced himself even more, anticipating a much more ruthless attack now that Rod had gone. Maria was a career, after all.

"Goodness, Twelve, no need to blow a gasket. I'm not going to kill you right now," Maria growled, her voice a mix of various condescending tones. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the ground next to Sam and placed her head in her hands mockingly. "So what seems to be the problem?"

Sam was shocked. This girl should be slitting his throat, spilling his fast-beating blood onto the cold,stone floor. She had him caught, she had won. Now it was time for her to collect her prize.

"Well, you aren't killing me, for starters," Sam grumbled, making sure to sound at least slightly happy about it, "I really don't appreciate you delaying it."

Maria laughed, no – she full out threw her head back and cackled.

"Well, Sammy, I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to, and believe me I do. You see, if I killed you now it would just break Rod's little heart, and I just can't do that to him. Not here," Maria paused, her temporarily comedic spirit falling away. "No, I have to make sure he gets out of these games alive and at least a little bit sane, and you're going to help me."

He could feel the stunned look on his face, so he was sure Maria could see it.

"No one really calls me 'Sammy,'" Sam just mumbled, "And I can't even…"

Maria held up he hand gingerly, stopping him.

"They're called felmus, the rodents. They used them a few decades ago in the games. They're very rare and trigger incredibly powerful but completely temporary reactions in the brain. You'll be fine in a few minutes. Then we're going to try and get out of these caves."

The shock only increased. He had never imagined that such a knowledgeable career would be his ally. He still had trouble imagining it as she handed him a bit of the bat he had been eyeing earlier.

"How do you know that there's an outside?" Sam asked the only question that wouldn't make him seem like an idiot in comparison. The fact that he was wolfing down rather large bites of semi cooked meat didn't help.

"I don't, but I need to. Careers in Four aren't trained for caves, and to be completely honest they make me feel uncomfortable. We figured that if we follow one path for a while, it's bound to take us somewhere."

Sam nodded. At this point, he had two options. One, he could help them find the outside. He'd have protection from someone who knew what she was doing, but only temporarily. Two, he could stay here and die.

For some reason, the prior didn't seem like the obvious choice it should have been.

**.o0o.**

For a few days, the Gamemakers allowed the tributes to be at peace. Sam, Maria, and Rod had been walking for what seemed like weeks, and their water was beginning to run low. Soon, they'd run out and be stranded in the depths of the tunnel system, but none of them said anything about their situation. No one wanted to be the one to say it aloud, for that would make it real.

Dean, Castiel, and Claire, on the other hand, seemed to be doing better than anyone else in the game. Less than half of the tributes were still alive, so Castiel considered his position a rather good one. Whatever was wrong with Dean didn't seem like it was going to wear off any time soon. Offering to take longer shifts guarding the Cornucopia so that Castiel could be with Claire, the career was kind and courteous. He talked in short sentences, as if speaking was painful, but Castiel knew it wasn't meant to be mean. Whatever had happened to Dean so far in the game, it had broken him.

Castiel knew that he had broken, too.

Claire was the only one whose psychological standing seemed untouched by the games, and that was only because she had rarely been conscious for any of it. Occasionally, she'd come to and mutter about home or her family or herself. She never seemed aware of her situation, nor of her pain. When she was unconscious, however, her hands frequently found their way to her wound, twisting and contorting on top of it in obvious pain.

Nearly three days went by without a death, and Dean was starting to get worried. The Capitol would lose interest if nothing was happening, and from where he was standing, it seemed as if the games had stopped. Either the rest of the tributes were constantly battling some sort of monster, or the Capitol was increasing suspense. He hoped it wasn't the latter.

A few hours into that third day, Dean heard it. It wasn't a natural noise, but he could tell that it came from a human. Looking around, he attempted to find the source. No one in the tunnels was anywhere near close enough to the structure to be heard from where he was. They had to be closer.

Dean spun on his heel, grabbing at the short sword he kept nestled in his arms. Castiel was asleep on the ground, his dark black hair thick and matted on his forehead. There was no one back there but him. No one but him and Claire.

Claire.

Dean ran toward the girl as fast as he feet could carry him. The noise emitted from her small body was worse than anything he had ever heard, like she was wheezing and the noise being pushed from her throat was the noise made by nails on a chalk board. Her body had gone limp, all except her head and neck, which convulsed back and forth with each overly audible breath.

The career didn't know what to do. He had learned so much about combat and personal survival skills, but never had anyone taught him how to handle a situation like this. This girl was dying, right here and now, and years of training wouldn't do anything for him.

He was trained to create a situation like this, not stop it.

Fear burst through his body as he felt a cold hand fall onto his shoulder. Castiel was awake, but his face was frozen in a way that didn't seem cognizant. The younger boy just stared at the girl, a single tear making its way from his round blue eyes.

"Put her out of her misery," he whispered, devoid of emotion. Dean turned toward him, his mouth opening in shock.

"What?" Dean asked, not knowing what else to say. This was the boy who had carried her body through miles of tunnel, and here he was asking to have her killed.

"That isn't – she isn't breathing. Her lungs are full of something, blood probably. She's either going to die in a few hours or a few seconds, which would you rather it be?" Castiel's voice had a sort of harshness to it that Dean had yet to hear. Silently, Dean wondered how Castiel knew about this, how he could remain so calm as he watched someone die. He decided not to ask.

He just did as he was told.

The canon fire must have been the loudest one yet.


	18. Disintegration

At first, Castiel was relatively fine. Watching her permanently still face with an expression that Dean had never witnessed before, he sat next to Claire's body. It was strange, like a look you'd expect to see as a parent gazed down at their newborn child and welcomed it into the family. But Castiel wasn't watching a newborn, or even his own kin. He was looking at a dead girl that he had only just met a few days ago.

For whatever reason, the look still filled Dean with a strange calmness. Despite the fact that they had only just met, despite the fact that they were destined to kill each other, Castiel loved Claire. A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye as the sudden beauty and intense sadness merged before him. Quickly batting it away, he rose to his feet. They had work to do.

"Cas?" he asked hesitantly, not wanting to tear the boy away from his friend. "They need to take her, Cas."

Without warning, the boy turned his explosive blue eyes towards Dean. A pain like that of a jagged knife pierced Dean's heart as Castiel stared up at him. His increasingly aqueous eyes exposing a world of depression and fear, this boy was beyond broken. Never in any of the recordings of past games had Dean ever seen anything like it before. In the tapes, he had watched murderous careers and crazed, determined underdogs, but never this. Never kindness. But in that moment, he knew it had to have been there.

Bubbling up until it stung like poison in his throat, hatred welled inside Dean. No one would see this.

"Okay," Castiel finally responded, looking back at Claire. "I'll carry her out."

The smaller boy lifted his friend and ally up off of her makeshift bed and carried her through the mouth of the Cornucopia. Dean watched as he walked into the center of the cavern, knelt to the ground, and placed Claire on the cold, gravelly floor. The boy hovered for a moment over the girl and whispered something Dean couldn't hear. Finally, he returned to his feet and screamed.

Tearing chunks of stone and dust off of the walls and ceiling, the sound of the wail erupted through the caves. More than anything, it pulled at Dean's chest. Dean had never heard such pain, not once in his entire life. Again, he wondered how many times such a thing had graced the games, remaining completely unbeknownst to the public.

Castiel's howl ended as abruptly as it had begun. He returned to the Cornucopia as if nothing had happened, the beautiful look vacant from his now dull blue eyes. The boy brushed past Dean, his shoulders hunched and rigid.

"What is even in these boxes, anyways?"

The sound of the boy's deep, crushed voice would haunt Dean for the rest of his life.

**.o0o.**

Sam knew that a few days had gone by without a death, but he had no idea how many; all he knew was that they weren't playing the anthem anymore. As far as time went, he tried to measure it with other things. The amount of times they stopped. The frequency of Rod's coughs. The increasing audibility of the rasping noise his dry throat made whenever he attempted to breathe.

That was, until a canon went off. The group froze for a moment as if to digest what it meant for them, the complete silence speaking volumes between them.

A captive in Maria's death march, Sam trudged on. Occasionally, he would talk to either Maria or Rod about pointless subjects – life in District 4, what it was like to train as a career, how they had come to be in this terrible situation. Sam soon learned more about the inner workings of the games than he had ever cared to know. Sure, people had always suspected that certain Reapings were rigged, but Maria and Rod's was an obvious fraud. Maria had trained for the games since she was young, but Rod was expected to grow up to run their family's fishing business – one of the district's most successful. Both of them would bring in a good deal of commerce through their individual futures.

But when Maria finally volunteered, she was completely unprepared for what was going to happen next. Rod's name was called, and no one volunteered in his place – not even the boy who had willingly trained beside her all those years. Maria quieted down after she mentioned that day, only answering direct questions for the rest of the group's journey.

Rod, however, only grew more and more vocal as the trip continued. Loud rasping coughs shook the tunnels, echoing for what were probably miles in every direction. If Sam had had any sense in him at all, he would have noticed what this volume meant for their group, what dangers it could impose. Looking back, he fully suspected that Maria must have realized that the coughs were far too loud for such a volatile game.

She must have.

Regardless, she was still the first to hear the end as it approached. She stopped in her tracks, holding up her hands to signal that Sam and Rod should do the same. Rod followed her lead almost immediately, releasing a nervous cough. In his dazed mental state, Sam took much longer to stop.

Just long enough to hear panicked boots break into a sprint.

"We aren't alone!" Maria practically screamed, pulling a compactable spear from her belt and expanded it with the most terrifyingly precise and swift motion Sam had ever seen. Maria was a career; there was no doubt about that.

Had she been your average career, Sam had no doubt that the scene would have unfolded differently. Maria would have seen Argus Bos running at them from the hidden tunnel that happened to be directly adjacent to where they had stopped. She would have turned and drove her spear into his gut, killing him almost instantly. They would have taken the jug of water he had fixed to his back with two tight handmade straps and continued on their way, complete and healthy.

But they didn't, because Maria wasn't.

Instead of reverting to her years of combat training, Maria turned her back on the hidden path. In the two seconds it took for her to push Rod into a crevice in the wall, she rewrote the group's fate. She chose her family instead of her better judgment, and in this situation, she chose wrong.

Argus hit her at full speed, knocking the spear from her hands and throwing her against the wall. In the blink of an eye, the boy from District 10 drove a small knife into the older girl.

Sam dove to the ground, looking away just as Argus moved to pull the knife out of her stomach and turn his way. Luckily, Sam didn't have the same ties to Rod as Maria had; he just had his primal instinct to defend himself. His long fingers closed around the spear where it laid abandoned on the ground. Quickly, he twisted on his back to face Argus once more, holding the spear out in front of him.

Argus didn't stop, and the spear pierced him at the base of his chest. Sam felt the spear slice through the boy and puncture the jug or water, sending it cascading down on him like a waterfall. Leaving an empty shell with spiked hair the color of fall hay, the world seemed to freeze as all life drained from the boy above Sam.

Scrambling away from the body as disgust and fear built up in him, Sam rolled out from under the boy. He had just killed someone. Every fact and figure he could remember about the boy rushed into his mind in a relentless wave. Argus had been his age, and if he remembered correctly they had both gotten exactly the same score, 8. Everything he knew about the boy he had just killed led right back to Sam. They were basically the same person.

Except Sam had chosen to compete in these games.

The sickening silence was broken as Rod finally pulled himself from his hiding spot.

"Maria?" his voice broke with childish concern as he stared down to where Argus had left his sister crumpled on the ground. She was dead, Sam could tell from his position against the wall. His suspicion was only confirmed as Rod angled his small ragged flashlight at her unnaturally pale face.

"Maria?" he repeated, but she would never respond. With little effort, Sam was able to pull himself up off the ground and move towards Rod.

"Come on, we need to keep moving. If he was here there could be others," Sam put a kind hand on Rod's shoulder and was pleasantly surprised when he didn't shake him off. Two more shots of the all too familiar canon rang out around them.

"Okay."


	19. Outside

Castiel dug through the boxes with more tenacity and strength than Dean had ever seen him exhibit. Throwing tins and plastics against the opposite wall, Castiel seemed to be relieving his frustration in a surprisingly healthy way. Sure, Dean occasionally had to avoid projectiles as they spun past his head, but it was still a relatively sane reaction.

Dean moved from his observation point at the mouth of the Cornucopia to the box next to the boy. Silently, they dug through the never ending contents together. Soon, piles of knives, packs, jackets, and even the occasional green and yellow boot that neither Dean nor Castiel knew the function of grew beside them.

With time, Castiel even began to physically relax. Dean could see that his mind was running at full speed, and he knew for sure that the boy's thoughts weren't pleasant. Placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, Dean sighed.

"I know what it's like to lose someone you care about, but, dude, she's definitely in a better place." Dean tried to smile, but the image of his mother that flashed through his mind prevented it.

It wasn't until Castiel slunk back to lean against the opposite wall that Dean felt for the first time as if kindness was an obligation.

"I lost my mother when I was young," Dean interjected without thinking. The younger boy's only response was to pull his lanky legs in to rest against his chest.

"I was really young, but I still remember the day it happened," Dean turned to face Castiel, mirroring the boy's body language as best as he could. With a nervous gulp, he continued.

"It happened in the middle of the night. I went into my parents' room – I forget why – and found a man I didn't recognize. My father was shouting for me to leave, and I did as he said. I never saw her again after that. I only even saw her for a second or two that night, actually," Dean's voice trailed into the empty silence. He had never spoken to anyone about that night, and now, not even caring that it could be broadcast nationally, he was telling the story to some random boy.

His expression unreadable and unchanging, Castiel looked up at him. Dean decided to go on.

"My father signed me up for training a few days later," cracking at the end of this memory, Dean's voice was the softest he had ever heard it. In that moment, he resembled a child for the first time in his entire life.

And this time, when Dean looked up at Castiel, he met the boy's eyes directly. They were soaked with tears.

"Thank you, Dean," he whispered so quietly that Dean wondered if he was even meant to hear it.

"It's not a problem, Cas," Dean breathed back.

The two tributes let the silence of the caves engulf them. Dean's mind, however, was nowhere near silent. He wondered what Castiel's life had been like – if he had a large family or close friends waiting anxiously for their boy's victorious return, waiting to embrace their broken, tortured boy. Most of all, Dean wondered if they still had hope. There was no doubt in Dean's mind that his father expected him to win, but did Castiel's?

Probably not.

If the two boys had the time, Dean would have asked Castiel about his life. But the sound of angry voices echoing throughout the cavern removed any chance of that.

Dean recognized Michael and Madu almost immediately, their disgusting voices forever ingrained in his memory. Castiel, only slightly slower on the uptake, sat in shock for a few seconds before scrambling to collect his bag.

"We need to get out of here," Dean said obviously, jamming everything into his pack in a flurry or metal and cloth.

"Claire is still out there," Castiel realized, panic overly evident in his deep voice. He didn't stop packing.

"She's already dead, they shouldn't bother her," Dean responded, flinching at the bittersweet pain his words caused Castiel. Both of them knew that was an assumption at best.

The two managed to get behind the Cornucopia before the careers entered the cavern. Castiel prepared to run, but Dean was able to grab his arm before he got away.

"No, they'll hear you," his voice was a growl, low and barely audible.

The careers' voices quickly suffocated the silence. Having had morphed her into a demonic killing machine in his mind, Dean had forgotten how childish Madu actually sounded. Michael was the same as he always was, tall and menacing. He ordered Madu towards the Cornucopia, and she skipped across the room as if it was of her own accord.

"What's this?" Madu laughed upon finding Claire lying neatly on the ground. Castiel shivered as the small girl stooped next to her. Dean shook his head. He couldn't lose Castiel to her.

"It's that girl you stabbed on the first day," Michael stated condescendingly, staring down at the girls, "She hasn't been collected yet. Whoever was with her must be close."

Madu looked up from Claire, scanning the cavern with her beady black eyes. "How close?"

"Let's find out."

Castiel tore his arm from Dean's grip. "We're leaving now."

The two backed into a tunnel without another word. Once they were out of sight, they broke into a sprint that never seemed to slow.

**.o0o.**

At first, Sam thought he was hallucinating. He had experienced this sensation so many times – too many times – he thought it was impossible for him to actually be feeling it now. The air had changed, morphing the entire tunnel into a much less stale and artificial place. Sam suspected that the air's purification was merely a change made by the Gamemakers at his expense. At this point in the games, everything seemed far too kind. It wasn't until he noticed the all too familiar shift in lighting that began to blame his overall mental state.

"Rod, turn off the light," Sam ordered.

Flipping the switch and watching as the tiny bulb dulled, Rod scurried to do as he was told. Sam's heart nearly skipped a beat when he noticed it –

The tunnel hadn't gone black.

"Is that –" Rod mumbled, securing Sam's hope. Rod could see it too; the natural light was real.

Sam opened his mouth, but closed it and cut himself off before he could continue. He couldn't let himself get his hopes up, this was the Hunger Games after all.

The two boys continued down the dim hall. Every so often, they'd stop to marvel at the way the natural light caught the dust and dirt that hung suspended in the air, or at how it shone a low white rather than the flashlight's obnoxious yellow or the Cornucopia's bizarre green. The light only grew more and more beautiful as they walked. For a moment, Sam almost allowed himself to feel as if he was walking out of the games.

And when they reached the cave's mouth, Sam nearly forgot about his thirst. He forgot about everything but the beautiful, alien image that was displayed before him. Smacking away a small bug as it landed on the nape of his neck, he couldn't help but wander toward it.

It must have been about noon, for the magnificent sun was placed in the center of the clear blue sky. A slight breeze drifted across the seemingly never-ending field of golden wheat, dancing in perfect time.

Sam walked into the grain, losing any sense of logic or reason. He stopped and turned to motion for Rod to follow him, but the boy was already drifting toward him with a similar look of dazed happiness on his pale face. Sam's eyes fell instead on the massive mound of slate and graphite that stood behind him, foreign to the calm, serene wheat field. He thought back for a second to the times he had spent in that cave – the challenges and the death. Now he just felt free.

Overwhelmed by the beauty of the scenery, he and Rod walked aimlessly for a few minutes. But when Sam finally looked back at the mountain, he released a small and incredibly surprised yelp. The mass had nearly disappeared, shrunken to resemble a children's toy on the horizon.

"That can't be," Sam mumbled, his heart suddenly racing and his lips dead dry, "We can't have been walking for more than 20 minutes. There's no way we wandered that far."

Rod turned to locate what had shocked the taller boy. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched as complete confusion consumed the boy's face. Also, something else strange caught his eye. Rod was red – his skin resembling the skin of a perfect apple. Could the boy really be that burnt from only several minutes in the sun?

Instinctively, Sam reached up and ran the back of his hand against his own skin, releasing a hiss of pain. Tearing it open, his calloused hand had collided with burnt, blistered skin.

"Something's wrong." Sam exclaimed, fear bleeding into his voice.

Grabbing the sleeve of Rod's jacket, Sam began to make his way back to the caves. As he moved he became increasingly aware of his thirst, exhaustion, and especially of his burns. The sun had moved from its position in the center of the sky to a position along the opposite horizon, casting long and unavoidable shadows across the now still wheat field.

Sam's determined walk became a frightened jog, and his jog evolved into a panicked sprint. Soon, Rod's body began to relax and lull in his grasp. The boy's eyes were rolling lazily and blood was beginning to escape from his dry, burnt lips. Sam tried to push away the image as he trudged on.

Time was wrong. What had taken two minutes of walking before was taking hours of running now. The caves were slowly growing on the horizon, but Sam was starting to think they'd never reach them in time. If time was even applicable.

Sam knew he could run faster alone, but he didn't let Rod go.

Eventually, they reached the mouth and embraced the shade with open arms. Rod collapsed almost immediately, managing to fall onto a patch of cool rock. Sam laid down next to him exhausted. His skin welcomed contact with the icy rock, and unconsciousness simply welcomed him.


	20. Unexpected Aid

A single canon fire. It barely meant anything to Dean and Castiel as they wandered aimlessly through the tunnels. Sure, Dean thought about it for a moment, the fact that somewhere in the tunnels a tribute had met his maker. He probably would have said something out loud if Castiel hadn't immediately shot him a watery, blue, depressed look. The former-career frowned, not because of the now deceased tribute, but because of how much this District 5 boy had changed. These games had ruined him. The Capitol had ruined him.

The feeling that filled Dean was a new sort of rage alien to his body, and it sent an eerie shudder down his spine. He wasn't a rebel. Hell, as a volunteer, he was exactly the opposite. He couldn't afford to hate the Capitol for something so small.

But it wasn't.

"Oh my –" Castiel exclaimed. Dean managed to pull himself from his inner monologue long enough to catch the back of Castiel's jacket billow as he broke out into a sprint.

"Cas?" Dean bellowed, his lone word sounding more like a question than he had intended.

Hurrying after the boy, Dean was nearly overwhelmed by the quality of air. For whatever reason, he could run again without feeling as if someone had his hands around his neck.

Eventually, Dean was confronted by the explanation. Castiel had stopped, dwarfed by the scene that stood before him. They had reached the mouth of the caves, and the stunning wheat that swayed back and forth in the fields was as beautiful as ever. Dean muffled a gasp when he saw it, the outdoors. It was the most beautiful, intoxicating thing his unused eyes had ever seen. Both he and Castiel couldn't help but move toward it.

The beauty of the moment was cut short as Castiel flew to the ground with a disgruntled yelp. At first, Dean merely thought the boy had tripped, his malnourishment and exhaustion finally getting to him. The terrified scream the tore through the tight space soon proved him wrong, and without even processing what he would do when he got there, he ran to his friend.

As soon as he reached the boy's side, Dean was able to see what had tripped Castiel. Two boys were laying on the stone floor, one facedown and the other facing up. Both of the tributes were covered from head to toe with violent red burns, their skin barely resembling that of a human. The chest of the larger boy, the one laying facedown, was heaving dramatically with each unconscious breath. The smaller boy wasn't moving at all.

Castiel had pressed himself as far into the wall as he could to avoid the bodies. His blue eyes were blown wide from the unexpected fear. Every other second, he would peel his eyes from the other tributes and glance outside into the beautiful field. Dean could tell that the boy was wondering what sort of monster they had encountered outside, what sort of demon was waiting for its next victims.

What sort of disaster had nearly claimed him and Cas.

Dean pat his friend's shoulder twice before turning to survey the scene. Neither of the burned boys had on the standard boots, or at least the shoes they now wore had been burned beyond recognition. Other than their shoes, their clothes remained utterly untouched. Dean held two fingers to each of their charred necks. Only one of them had a pulse.

"The smaller one's dead," Dean's voice took on an abnormally harsh tone, causing Castiel to press himself more firmly into the wall.

"What do you think we should do, Dean?" Castiel sputtered, his heartbeat out of control.

Dean shrugged stiffly. He knew what he was supposed to do, what he had been trained to do. A career would kill the larger boy while he was still unconscious, or he might even wait until he came to. That would be more interesting, more violent, and that sort of entertainment was what the Capitol wanted.

But for the first time in his life, Dean took the time to think about what he wanted. He didn't go with his gut or listen to his trainers or worship his father, he thought.

Killing the boy may be more humane. While the burns didn't look incredibly deep, they were incredibly numerous. Infection was close to inevitable, and pain was completely unavoidable. He wouldn't be able to fight in that much pain. But as Dean gazed down at the raggedy, oversized tribute, he couldn't bring himself to kill him. This boy had volunteered and the careers had painted him as generally unstable, but for whatever reason his burnt, limp face radiated innocence. He, like every other tribute in the games, was a child.

Dean couldn't kill him, not anymore.

"He's going to wake up, Dean," Castiel's strained and panicked voice muttered cautiously from behind him.

"Then we better go," Dean responded with an unintentional harshness. He rose to his feet and moved towards Castiel, who didn't seem to want to move from the wall.

"But, but when he wakes up –"

"We won't be around to see that," Dean concluded. Castiel hesitantly rose from the ground, never losing his tense demeanor.

Castiel moved to lead Dean back into the cave system, but a part of Dean didn't want to go just yet. In a flurry of unrecognizable emotions, Dean dug his hand into his pack and retrieved a small canteen, placing it on the ground next to the boy. It was one of many, so he doubted that losing it would affect them in the long run.

As Dean turned to follow Castiel he looked back to the boy once more, a single thought running through his mind.

_ May the odds be ever in his favor._

**.o0o.**

All Sam saw was the water. His eyes fluttered open and instantly flew to the canteen. He didn't take a moment to think where it had come from or what it might hold, he just drank. He didn't drink the whole bottle, for he knew Rod would need some too. As he sat and downed the bottle, pain shot from every inch of his skin, originating from his charred feet. He couldn't decide if he was still happy or not.

After a few minutes of getting used to the agonizing pain, Sam looked around. They had only made it a few feet into the caves, but that was enough. Whatever had affected them outside had lost its power. They were safe.

As safe as one could be.

Finally, he turned his eyes to the canteen that was now resting against a nearby rock. It wasn't accompanied by the typical small silver parachute, but would aid still being delivered that way in the caves? Anyways, who would sponsor a deranged, suicidal tribute who'd spent most of his time in the games almost dying? It didn't even occur to Sam that the sponsor could have been another tribute. In the back of his mind, he wondered if another tribute had come across his lifeless body, but he knew they would have killed him in a second.

Rolling over onto his back, he looked at Rod for the first time. The boy was still, his body unnaturally red. Sam moved toward him slowly, an uneasy feeling in his gut.

"Rod?" he asked quietly. The boy didn't move. Sam scooted closer, hissing as his hands made contact with loose stone.

"Rod?" This time, he was close enough to nudge the limp boy. He didn't move. Sam's heart nearly froze as he placed two burnt fingers to the boy's raw neck. There wasn't a pulse.

The boy was dead.

An explosion of pain ripped through Sam's chest. He wanted to cry, but he knew he couldn't – not in front of the Capitol. He was supposed to play the maniac from District 12, so that was him now. Pulling his legs to his chest, Sam stared down at Rod. He had promised to watch this boy, and he had failed. He had promised to protect Maria, and he had failed. He had told Gabriel that he could win this.

And he would fail.


	21. A Feast

Chuck was stressed out. He was two bottles of champagne in, and the headaches still hadn't gone away. Every second of his life had been preparation for this, and he was messing it up. For the first time, he was confronted by what might happen after the games were over.

From within his hands, the sound of the ornamental cork bursting out of the third bottle startled him.

The citizens of the Capitol had gone wild. It had been entertaining when Dean had taken Castiel under his wing, and the people had been incredibly surprised when Sam had allied with Maria and Rod. But when Claire died, the city was solemn. The reaction wasn't normal, and to be honest, it freaked Chuck out. Unless they had lost a significant amount of betting money as a result of their death, people almost never mourned a tribute. Everyone had known Claire would die, but everyone was still affected by the death.

For a while, Chuck had it under control. He re-routed the boy from District 10 so that his path crossed over Sam, Maria, and Rod's. The Capitol was quickly reminded of Sam's brutality, lessening the likelihood that Rod would become another Claire. But then Dean had to go ruin everything.

As Chuck downed the third bottle, he frowned. Champagne just didn't taste the same when you were already wasted.

Careers were the glue that held this entire operation together. Because of them, it didn't matter how many kids cried and sobbed their way through the bloodbath. As long as there were brutal, vicious killers tearing through the lesser tributes, none of the Capitol citizens would notice the true nature of the games. Specifically, Dean had been even more important. He represented a new generation, another line of faithful, devoted tributes. When he gave his water– the most important resource – to Sam the Psychopath, he rewrote everything.

He demonstrated morality. He created doubt.

President Snow had come to visit Chuck. When the Head Gamemaker received the notice that his leader was coming for "tea", he had panicked. Gamemakers in the past had disappeared after the games were over, and it was no secret why. They had attempted to befoul the integrity of the games through their actions.

He knew he was about to suffer the same fate.

Wearing an all black suit that was terribly out of place amongst the Capitol's colors, Snow was dressed as usual when he arrived. He had sat across from an equally underdressed Chuck casually, as if he was merely meeting his friend after a long day of hard work. Chuck held his breath.

"Do you know why I am here, Carver?" he asked, using Chuck's pseudonym respectively. President Snow had a way of talking to him as if he was five, but threatening him as if he was a vile, viscous murderer.

"It's about the boy from District 2, Dean Winchester," Chuck started, gulping in a good deal of air at the end of his statement. The fear that pumped through his veins was uncontrollable, palpable, and nauseating.

"Yes, it is indeed," Snow looked down at the armrest of the large platinum chair he occupied, picking at it judgingly. "And do you know why I have a problem with that boy?"

Chuck tensed, and Snow noticed it immediately.

"No need to be afraid, son. It isn't your fault that this good-for-nothing derelict seems to think he's above my system. I am sure that you will solve this little dilemma with incredible haste, is my conclusion correct?" Snow's eyes now bore into Chuck, his nails still digging into the arm of the chair.

"Yes, yes sir."

The meeting with President Snow had left him a bit shaky, but it had given him an idea. He informed the other Gamemakers almost immediately after the President left, and they all agreed that it was a brilliant idea. It was time for the 51st Hunger Games to get interesting.

**.o0o.**

Loosening chunks of rock and raising an incredibly thick mist of dust and gravel, the sound of the anthem furiously shook the cave walls. Each one of the tributes turned to look at the walls, expecting to see the faces of their friends and competitors who had fallen that day.

But it was not nighttime. They were met by darkness and the sound of trumpets. Everyone strained to listen, for they knew what was coming.

"_Attention tributes_," a voice rushed through the caves, even louder than the anthem had been, "_I regret to inform you that there may be a substantial threat in the arena._"

"_It has come to our attention that a toxic chemical may be present within the caves, and in a few hours, it will be at immeasurable levels. In order to keep the Games fair for all of you, we have organized a feast. Food will not be offered, but rather, seven specially designed gas masks have been placed near the Cornucopia for your use. If you wish to survive through the night, it is crucial that you arrive as soon as possible. Good luck!_"

There was barely a moment of silence in the caves before every one of the tributes began to move.

**.o0o.**

Sam tried to bring himself to his feet, but he couldn't. The pain was too much. Looking down at the charred shoes that encased his feet, he sighed. He needed to get to the Cornucopia, but in his condition, it was beginning to look impossible.

No matter what the Gamemakers claimed, everyone knew they were the ones releasing the chemical. No one would think anything of it, it was just the nature of the Hunger Games. This was an attempt to make everyone strong fight to the death, and to make everyone weak die without a fight. Sam wanted to refuse the fate of a weakling - he wanted to go.

But a part of him didn't think he could.

It would be easier to wait here. With his handicap, he'd probably be killed the second he got within thirty feet of the Cornucopia. That, and the shock from the wounds on feet might kill him before he even managed to reach the Cornucopia.

However, Same couldn't help but think it was worth a try.

Wincing as pain shot up them and throughout his body, Sam placed his raw hands onto the ground behind him. He knew he had to at least try to do this, so he pushed through the pain. In a few minutes, Sam was on his feet. It felt like he was standing on a bed of sharpened knives and thorns, but he was vertical. Slowly, he moved one foot forward. For a second, it felt almost good.

Then his foot regained contact with the ground.

A single thunderous cry of pain echoed throughout the caves as his foot returned to the ground, as the knives dug back into his flesh. It was excruciating.

For a moment, Sam stopped. He stopped, and looked back at the mouth. Maybe he could stay here. It was so close to the mouth, so maybe the poison wouldn't be dense enough. He ripped his eyes off of the glistening wheat as the memory of open burns stung in his mind. Finally, his eyes fell onto the charred boy who still rested peacefully on the cold stone floor.

He solemnly reminded himself that he only had a hundred-something more steps to go.


	22. One for All

Her dark hair was beginning to cling to her face, it was so coated with sweat, dust, and grime. Once the bats had cleared out of the cavern and their annoying affects had worn off, Michael and Madu had taken turns washing themselves in the underground lake. But that had been days ago, so the filth, gluing her clumped hair down like a stiff cap, had managed to resume its overwhelming presence on her undersized forehead.

Running the back of her hand across her grimy forehead, Madu sighed. The Game was getting boring, and she was growing impatient. It was only a matter of time until the Gamemakers intervened and things got interesting, but time seemed to be moving slower than she could bear.

That was, until the announcement.

Only wandering far enough to safely return within an hour if necessary, she and Michael had remained generally close to the Cornucopia after they had found Claire there. When the announcement of a feast shook the arena, Madu had been about twenty-five minutes away, tops.

As she returned, she ran faster than she ever had before. Her rough, grimy hair whipped against the back of her neck and forehead and reminded her of her life before the games. She and the boys who lived next door would race into town the second they could smell the sweet aroma of bread wafting through the mountain air. The boys would never talk to her once she got there, but it was still nice to know that for a moment she had been part of a group, even if it had been coincidental.

And now, in these Games, she was racing to someone, not some bread. Even better, she was flying through these caves with millions of people watching her. She was the center of attention, and for some she was already the victor. People probably worshiped her in the Capitol – she had already received multiple gifts from Sponsors. It was the happiest she had ever been in her rather short life.

Michael was already waiting for her in the Cornucopia. Six masks were resting on top of their specially crafted pedestals. The final mask was already in Michael's possessive hands, his knuckles white as his fingers dug into its yellowing plastic material.

Madu approached the masks slowly, her mind scurrying to come up with an idea diabolical enough to keep the Game interesting. The Gamemakers had clearly expected her to stay and fight, to cause a second Bloodbath in the Cornucopia, but that was unacceptable. It was too easy, too bland. She had to be interesting.

"Let's take them and run," she spoke the thought aloud the second it appeared in her mind. Not only would this plan please the Gamemakers, but it would please the masses of the Capitol. That, and it would award her with a greater likelihood of safety than an erratic fight would.

"No," Michael responded sturdily, his voice gruff and calm as if he was still considering the words he was about to speak.

"Then what do you think we should do? We can do literally anything!" Madu could feel her hands beginning to shake from a mixture of rage, excitement, and power.

"I, uh, I agree with you. We should take them," Michael started, his voice wavering as he continued to test his own idea. "But, I think we should leave one."

Madu turned to face the masks again as she pondered the idea. Not only would they get away with enough masks to save themselves and surprise the audience, but the Gamemakers might even get to keep their bloodbath, round two.

"It's perfect," she whispered to herself.

"Let's go."

**.o0o.**

From where Dean and Castiel watched in the shadows, the exchange seemed to unfold in slow motion. As the two Careers talked in the greenish glow of the Cornucopia, Dean held Castiel in place with his still slightly wounded arm. Far too ready to attack the girl who had killed his friend, Castiel was twitching underneath him. Dean sighed, for he was only trying to prevent that same misfortune from happening to him.

"We have to go after them, Dean," Castiel whispered as the two Careers ran into the far tunnel. His deep voice was too loud for Dean's comfort.

"Just wait," Dean murmured apprehensively. "We don't want to do anything too dangerous."

"Like what?" Castiel combated immediately, a slight anger rising in his inexperienced voice, "Like wait for them to be miles down tunnel with all but one of the masks?"

Dean signed. As right as he wanted Castiel to be, he knew one more option remained.

"We could just take the one remaining mask," Dean suggested, his voice cold and quiet. Picking at a nearby stone with his knife, he avoided Castiel's glare.

"And do what, Dean? Share?" Castiel's wide eyes stared at him menacingly, willing him to answer and burning yet another hole in his shoulder.

"Well, one of us could –" Dean started slowly, but was silenced before he could conclude his point.

"No," Castiel said sternly, "One of us could not."

Finally, Dean gathered the courage to look the younger boy in the eyes. Without delay, he was attacked by the sheer anger and frustration that swam in the boy's full blue eyes. However, within a few seconds, Dean was struck by another emotion. Castiel was afraid.

"One of us will have to eventually," Dean mumbled, continuing their increasingly vague conversation. The sound of his voice barely made it past his lips, but with a gulp, he thrust it out. "That's the game."

"So I suppose you'll get this mask," Castiel spoke, his voice wavering ever so slightly. A small squeak of suffocated panic managed to escape the boy's throat.

"Hell, no," Dean responded bluntly. Castiel's eyebrows shot up in surprise as his anger overtook his fear.

"What? But, Dean, I'll never win! At least you'd have a change to go home and see your family again!" Castiel was almost speaking at full volume.

"But I –" Dean's voice fell flat, he had never been very good at getting to the point. "I don't want that chance. Getting back, it isn't worth it. Not if I have to see other people die to get it. I don't ever want to see anyone die again. Not here. Not in the games next year. Not in the games twenty years from now. But that will never happen; I can't make that happen. So I might as well make myself stop seeing it."

Dean finally fell silent, knowing the Gamemakers weren't going to broadcast that speech to the Districts. That was the sort of speech that got a person's family killed.

Or a person slapped.

Castiel's hand whipped across his face with a surprisingly powerful fury. The second Dean was able to comprehend what had just happened, another blow shocked his already tender cheek. Then, holding him in place, powerful hands gripped his shoulders.

"Dean Winchester, if you say anything like that ever again, I will hurt you," Castiel's voice had dropped to an unbelievably harsh tone. Dean could still hear the fear as it slunk into the background of the boy's low tones.

"Well, I'm not going to just let you die," Dean nearly whimpered, not know what else to say with Castiel's hands digging into the wounds on his shoulders.

"Well, then. If I will not let you give me the one mask, and you will not let me give you the one mask, and neither you nor I am content with allowing both of us to die without a fight, then why don't we go fight?"

Dean nodded shallowly, and so the two began to move down the tunnel Michael and Madu had taken.

"Wait," he said before they took off in a full sprint, "What about that one mask? Aren't we going to take it?"

Castiel looked confused, he thought the answer had been clear, "We'll leave it, for now."

"What?" Dean growled. "But what if –"

"If we don't get the other masks, then there's really no point, is there? Neither of us would take the mask willingly, knowing there was only one. It's all or nothing, now," Castiel's face was sullen and empty, and so he turned and led the way.

Dean followed, his head bowed and a frown on his face. At least he could walk away knowing he allowed another tribute a chance at survival.

**.o0o.**

A cloud of pain followed Sam as he dragged his burnt and wounded body down the tunnels. Everywhere he looked, he was met by either complete darkness or an eerie mist of dust and the uncontrollable tears that clung to the sides of his eyes. It was the worst pain he had ever felt, the worst pain he could ever imagine, but he knew that he didn't want to die.

Instead of letting the cloud fog his thoughts, Sam thought back to the Seam. Having had been dealt one of the worst fates imaginable, he had never appreciated his own life. When his brother had died, he had lost it. Nothing else had mattered once Adam was killed. He would have starved if it wasn't for the occasional scraps of food that Gabriel could spare, or the job at the mine he had left school for. He had never imagined that he would be in a situation wherein he would want nothing more than to return to the Seam, to slide into one of the dusty, moldy seats in the back of the Distillery and laugh along to one of Gabriel's stupid jokes. But now, he did, and a part of himself was almost thankful for the homesickness.

Sam was surprised at how quickly he found the Cornucopia. For a moment, he wondered if the Gamemakers had made it that way, rerouted the tunnels so that all of the tributes would all arrive there at the same time. He decided he didn't want to know.

Hiding a few feet into the mouth of one of the tunnels, Sam waited. He waited while the two most frightening careers stole all but one of the masks. He waited while the other remaining career and the serious, small boy argued a bit too loudly and then ran after them. Sam knew he would never manage to get a mask through an offensive attack, he could barely stand without sending rivulets of pain rushing down his body.

So instead, he waited.

Finally, a mousy boy from District 11, Yardley, slunk into the cavern. The boy was painted from head to toe in what Sam suspected was a mixture of dust and mud, blending perfectly with his dark skin to blend with the cave's stone walls. If the boy hadn't been moving, Sam figured he never would have even noticed that he was there.

The boy snatched the mask from its stand and froze. Sam smirked, the boy hadn't expected to get this far. Lifting a larger rock from the ground and wincing at the way it brushed against the burns on his hands, Sam launched it into the mouth of the tunnel Yardley had come out of. The tribute jumped in place, clearly startled by the sudden change of events. Sam watched as the boy began to panic, running directly for the tunnel where Sam was waiting, the cheap plastic mask in his hand.

Sam knew he could never be ready for what would come next, but he needed to get home.


	23. Faces of the Dead

**Hey guys, so I know I've been gone for a whole year, but I don't want you to think I've given up. If, at any time, I "give up" on this fic, I will post my plotline, so you at least have closure. Hopefully I'll post more regularly in the upcoming weeks.**

**.o0o.**

Four.

As one of the lowest scoring tributes, Yardley Hallow, had barely managed to tie scores with Pan Brown, the youngest tribute and the first to die, and yet he was one of the final seven. Yardley had known from the second he had been reaped that he'd be a likely victim. With his size, strength, and age, the fourteen-year-old farmhand's son had assumed that he'd be one of the tributes to die nameless and alone at the bloodbath.

Even at home, Yardley had been a slacker, an underachiever. Carving pictures into the slowly rotting wood, he had spent hours hiding in the crevices of his local barn. After years of practice, he had become a professional hider. If Yardley didn't want to found, he could remain in the shadows forever.

And as the cannon went off and the Cornucopia illuminated the cavern, Yardley was welcomed by a considerable amount of shadows. Slinking into them, Yardley secured his fate.

He'd be safe.

Recognizing the night vision goggles, which were nearly identical to the ones he had used back in Eleven during the late-night harvests, was Yardley's second chance at a better fate. As soon as the careers left, he was able to take them, some food and supplies, and a good look at the map, and then he was on his way. He moved throughout the shadows undetected and surprisingly well nourished.

Yardley listened as the cannons slowly sealed the fates of eighteen other tributes. Staying in the shadows, staying safe, he was gaining hope. Every second that went by allowed him to imagine himself the victor once more. Yardley Hallow, the first fourteen-year-old, 105 pound, score-of-four victor from District 11.

He was so good at hiding, so good at surviving, maybe he wouldn't even have to kill anyone. Maybe he could just watch as other tributes tore into each other, sealing their fates and his. And so, when the Feast was announced, he painted on the best camouflage he could and returned to the Cornucopia. When he arrived, only one mask remained. It seemed too good to be true, but he went with it. Taking the mask, Yardley was surprised when no one attacked, no one even seemed to be there. Maybe, just maybe, he would win.

That was what he hoped, until he heard the thumping behind him. It sounded as if someone was carrying a large sac and was letting it hit every rock and boulder he passed. Immediately, Yardley froze, shoving himself into the wall and sliding his goggles into place. This was the closest he had come to another tribute since the games began.

This was it.

**.o0o.**

Crouching in the darkest shadows, Dean and Castiel had successfully cornered the careers. It was the longest Dean had gone without his headlamp, but he was confident that regardless of the disadvantage, the two careers wouldn't be able to escape the upcoming attack. Nevertheless, Dean knew they wouldn't try. For a career, running away from an attack was essentially suicide.

Laying his hand on Castiel's shoulder, Dean sent the first signal. Slowly, the two boys rose to their feet. In a moment, Castiel would attack the form on the left, and Dean the form on the right. Dean had planned out the attack hoping that he would be the one to go after Michael. Madu may be vicious, but she was small and comparatively weak. The death she'd give Castiel might literally be overkill, but at least he'd have a chance at avoiding it.

Telling the boy that they were the easiest weapon for beginners, Dean had given Castiel a series of long knives.

"If you're too afraid to get close to the others, just throw them. Try not to hit me, and make sure to keep at least one with you at all times. If anyone gets close enough to you, swipe it like this. That way, it won't get stuck."

Once the boys had both risen, Castiel slid one of the knives into his hand. Making his head feel heavy and limp, his adrenaline was incredibly high. For the entirety of the Games, Castiel had done nothing more than run and hide. But now, things had changed. He could hear Caesar Flickerman now, announcing their actions to Panem.

"This is it," he'd say. "This is when tributes seal, change, or avoid their fates. Perhaps, this is the moment when a tribute sets his, or her, fate as victor."

Only, Castiel almost hoped his fantasy Flickerman was speaking about Dean.

Patting Castiel on the shoulder, Dean sent the second, final signal.

Charge.

As Dean turned his light back on, the two boys collectively ran as fast as they could at the others. With the element of surprise, they both hit their targets. Dean tackled Madu to the ground and held her down with surprising ease. She only had one mask wrapped around her arm.

In a minute, it'd be theirs.

Castiel, however, was barely able to make an impression on Michael. Instantly, he regretted running forward. Michael reacted by swinging his arm forward, nearly knocking Castiel unconscious with the multitude of masks he also had wrapped tightly around the beefy forearm.

Perhaps this was the moment Michael would seal his fate as victor.

Across the cavern from her inescapable spot, Madu's terrifying aura had dissolved. Instead of fighting back with the tact and intensity that was expected from a career, she simply clawed at Dean's arms to no avail and squealed like a scared piglet.

At that moment, Dean didn't have the time to absorb or consider what this complete change in persona meant, he just attacked. Intentionally clouding his mind with images of Madu slicing into Yumi's screaming form, Dean ended her with a single slice of his sword.

Ending the moment, a cannon went off.

Dean turned to see how Castiel's attack had fared.

**.o0o.**

Sam didn't have a plan, he had a target. Life could no longer be defined by goals and forethought, just action. Right now, the only action he could muster was the force it took to drag himself forward, drag himself toward the other tribute.

And it hurt.

When his brother, Adam, competed six years ago, a younger Sam had watched him endure pain. The tribute stationed next to him managed to, or planned to, step off of the pedestal before the games began. Adam Wesson began the game by being impaled by a projectile mix of bone and flesh.

In his recently injured state, the then sixteen-year-old didn't manage to get any survival gear, and very slowly succame to thirst and hunger. Water was rich in that Game's swamp setting, so his thirst was quenched, but there was absolutely no food. As Adam was slowly immobilized by the hunger, his wounds festered as his skin struggled to heal around the bone.

His brother's misfortunes cumulating, pre-teen Sam saw Adam lay down for the very last time. It had just been for a quick rest, but then the bugs surfaced. The most interesting aspect of the 45th Annual Hunger Games was the bugs. In certain areas, nighttime meant nothing more than the anthem, the faces of the dead, and a few hours of darkness, but in others it meant hell. Certain areas were rigged with poisonous, carnivorous, vicious bugs that would tear through anyone who was misfortunate enough to fall in their paths.

Ever so slowly, they tore through Adam.

He was one of the last tributes to die, that was what everyone always told Sam. That was what was muttered by the following year's escort before he pulled the meaningless cards from the large glass bowl.

Knowing his name was only listed once, Sam stood in the pews with the other boys his age. He could tell that every other boy was hoping that his name wasn't called, but Sam was different. Under his breath, Sam prayed that his name would be the one, that he would get to be with his brother again.

That was the first kind of pain Sam had experienced, and this was the second. Physical pain bled into every sense, and his mind simply could not ignore it. Not only was his skin on fire, but his mind was determined to fix it even though he knew it wasn't possible. He couldn't move, he couldn't think, and yet he continued to.

He moved toward Yardley.

After a few minutes of disorganized stalking, Sam began to suspect that Yardley had simply vanished. He knew that he had been making far too much noise, but he had no idea how Yardley had managed to avoid him in such a small space. He hadn't heard the boy start to run, so he still had to be close.

He was hiding, Sam knew it.

In what seemed like the far off distance, a cannon went off. Sam knew another one was about to sound.

**.o0o.**

When Dean had started training, he was enrolled with seven other boys and eight girls his age, all of whom were hopeful that they'd be the best, that they'd be the tribute-turned-victor. The first few months of training were the most intense. Regardless of the task, whether it be fire starting or animal trapping, everyone was struggling to be the best.

Dean would go home every day, sliced and beaten. Refusing to acknowledge his son in such a weak, insignificant state, his father would simply scoff at him. Dean didn't get the chance to tell him that every other boy went home significantly more demolished than he did, for his father didn't seem to care.

Looking back, his father probably knew.

During the second week of training, Dean began to feel its effects. He felt like a small yet powerful part of a greater machine, like the pristine trigger of a quality rifle. That was what training was for, to take away his humanity.

And yet, when Dean sat down for a very short water break, a glimmer of hope sat by his side. Benny Lafitte, a nearly friendly, borderline old looking boy, chugged his own water without regard for anything. After a few minute of surprisingly unforced conversation, Dean had made his very first friend.

Together, they practiced nearly every day. Dean helped Benny with technical weaponry and fighting, and Benny helped Dean learn how to truly understand battle strategy. As a team, they dominated the training center. Knowing that no attack could bring them down, everyone feared them.

But they were both boys.

In District 2, training starts with sixteen boys and girls, each of their names up for reaping for the very first time. Each year, the weakest tributes are asked to leave. Not only does this symbolize the process of the real Hunger Games, but it ensures that only the strongest boy and girl can become tribute.

At the end of the first year, everyone knew who'd leave. A hay-haired girl from a surrounding town constantly refused to try any sharp weapon and a bulky boy who didn't seem like he was losing his baby fat any time soon were in line for elimination. And yet, when Dean arrived at training, Benny stood beside the hay-haired girl.

No one knew why Benny had been the one to leave, no one except for Dean. From that moment on, Dean never doubted that he was going to be the tribute. His final reason to avoid becoming the machine, the trigger, was gone.

Dean trained alone.

Nevertheless, when Dean looked over and saw Michael's hands around Castiel's neck, the last thing he wanted to be was alone. Dean didn't want to be a cold, functional trigger, he wanted to be a friend.

With one emotionally driven and tactless swipe, Dean felt as his sword plunged into Michael's hip. Michael, in a fit of panic, bellowed at the top of his lungs and released Castiel. He had probably never actually been hit by a blow like this one before, he was unprepared.

The next few seconds passed so quickly that Dean barely understood what happened. Limp and nearly lifeless, Castiel fell to the floor. Michael began to run as blood poured down his side and the series of masks slid to the dark floor. Dean heard one clatter to the ground, intermixed with the sounds of Michael's feet against the cold stone floor.

Without thinking, Dean's feet joined the clatter.

**.o0o.**

Yardley watched as the tall tribute stumbled around the cave, his face contorted in pain. Somewhere in his mind, he hoped that the boy would just stumble past him, that maybe the toxic chemical would build up, and he could put the mask on himself and live another day.

But that wasn't what the Gamemakers had in mind.

Louder than the anthem had ever been, and earsplitting alarm shook the caves. A dusting of rock rained onto the ground, quickly filling Yardley's lungs and producing a thick, gravelly cough. Fear shook through Yardley with the cough.

He wouldn't be able to hide now.

To make matters worse, the walls of the cave began to fall away, just as they always did with the nightly announcements. However, instead of showing the Capitol's seal, it fell away into a lightboard of bright, frightening red.

Yardley felt even more overexposed.

He watched as Sam turned toward him, but he closed his eyes just before Sam lunged at him. The older tribute's skin felt like fraying leather as it pressed against his own.

"Attention tributes!" the voice shouted over the alarm. Yardley attempted to scream out of fright and panic, but Sam's hands were wrapped around his neck.

"The chemical levels in the arena are off the charts and rising! Only a handful of tributes have managed to acquire masks, and in the coming minutes you will need them! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

Sam smashed Yardley's skull into the still-red wall the second the voice faded away. Yardley continued to shout, but he was drowned out by the screaming alarm. The caves had gone fuzzy through his now unnecessary night vision goggles, and Yardley could tell he was disoriented.

This was the end.

His thoughts were muddled. Instead of focusing on the hands on his throat, or the pain shooting through the bleeding wound on the back of his head, Yardley thought of home. He wondered if his father was watching him now. He wondered if he was proud that he had made it this far, that he was eighteenth tribute to die. More than anything, Yardley hoped that his father was proud of him.

And, in his last seconds, Yardley hoped that Sam's father would be proud of him, too.


	24. Choose Right

Dean had stopped thinking, and he knew how destructive that could be in the Games. While the tiniest bit of rational thought screamed from his faraway subconscious that he needed to stop and think, he suppressed it. Instead, he listened to the primal, physical, natural desire that was fresh in his mind and on his hands: bloodlust. Dean was no longer preoccupied by the guilt that had previously plagued him, for this time he had killed someone who deserved to die.

And he wanted to do it again.

His headlamp bobbed up and down as he, blinded by rage, sprinted after Michael. The bulkier tribute was slower than usual due to his injury, so it didn't take much running for Dean to be on his tail.

Then he was directly behind him.

He was tackling him to the ground.

Dean's cracked, dry hands ached as they drove repeatedly into Michael's body. Meeting flesh, then blood, then bone, Dean's hands acted without forethought. The sound of his fists against the bloody, beaten boy resonated throughout the cave. Occasionally mixed in, Michael would scream or utter some pathetic plea, but Dean couldn't hear him.

He was gone.

There was nothing but silence.

Realizing what he had done, Dean sprang away from the body. A panic flooded throughout his veins as he backed down the cavern. Stopping only for a second, Dean snatched one of the masks Michael had dropped as he fled.

Before Dean's full conscience could fully recognize what he had just done, an ear-shattering alarm rang and the walls began to fall around him. Unsure whether or not he was hallucinating, Dean fell to his knees.

"Attention tributes!" a voice protruded from the alarm, and in a second Dean could tell it was Carver's. A bit of his mind began to believe that it wasn't a hallucination.

"The chemical levels in the arena are off the charts and rising! Only a handful of tributes have managed to acquire masks, and in the coming minutes you will need them! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

Dean looked down at his hands, his lamp beginning to slide down his dampened forehead. Clasped in his white-knuckled fists were two masks, one for him and one for Castiel. Memories of Castiel flooded back as Dean began to really come down from his adrenaline high.

Castiel needed his help.

In seconds, Dean was back by Castiel's side. The boy was still crumpled on the ground, but his eyes were open and blinking rapidly.

"Dean. Dean there was a voice and it came out of nowhere," Castiel seemed shocked and dumbfounded.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean responded, smirking slightly. "Take this and put it on."

Handing Castiel the mask, Dean couldn't help but feel a bit better. He and Castiel had basically made the final three. Only one other mask had managed to escape the former Careers, so the other tributes would soon be dead. Even though he knew there'd have to be a victor, the thought made Dean happy.

Castiel could win this.

"Dean," Castiel muttered hesitantly, "I don't think this is how this mask is supposed to function."

Cutting his elation short, Castiel extended the arm that held his mask. At first, nothing seemed wrong with the black plastic contraption, but then he saw it. Parts of the filter had been hacked and sliced so that it just barely clung to the central mask. The mask was completely useless.

Quickly, Dean looked down at his own mask. Where Castiel's was completely shredded, his was smooth and unmarred.

Michael kill count was about to rise once more.

**.o0o.**

Pulling her tightly curled blonde hair up in a bun, Poplar watched the four other tributes fight.

As a moderately skilled tribute of average age from a generally unsuccessful district, Poplar knew the other tributes weren't worrying about her. Sure, she had made it this far, but she was completely aware that the others didn't believe it was because of her ability.

She knew it was because of her stealth.

Poplar made a living as a petty thief. For as long as she could remember, she had stolen anything she wanted. Only once had she been caught, but with her soft, feminine face and ability to cry on command, she had never suffered any punishment.

Now, in the middle of a panic and fear driven scenario, she would have to make her sneakiest theft yet.

Her eyes clung to the masks woven around Michael's arms. If she could grab one without being caught, she may be able to survive another day, but if she could not, then she would face the ultimate punishment for failure.

Death.

Mere seconds after it seemed like Michael was going to kill the smaller boy, the career Dean turned on him. Michael quickly fled, and with him went the masks.

Poplar's heart lept.

Her eyes, however, stayed focused. She watched as Michael pulled out a particularly large serrated knife and swung it at the masks. Through most of them, the knife instantly sliced the mask's cheap plastic to pieces. On one of them, though, it sliced through the strap.

Poplar nearly gasped as the mask clattered to the floor, but her adrenaline reached its all-time high as Dean simply ran past it.

He was fueled by rage, but Popular knew she was better than that. She was the one that would steal a mask without confrontation.

In fact, this theft would be her easiest yet, for no one would be there to defend or protect it. Snatching the mask off of the ground, Poplar could hear the cheerful cries of the Capitol citizens.

**.o0o.**

Sam felt groggy as he backed away from the corpse. In his hands, he held the mask. While this mask would insure his survival, no part of him wanted it. Unlike when he had killed Angus, he felt true guilt now. Yardley hadn't attacked him or threatened him or fallen on his weapon. Instead, his hands had moved to kill Yardley.

His mind and his hands were the culprit.

Somewhere deep in his mind, Sam knew that Yardley had to die. All but one of them was going to die, it was unchangeable fact. And yet right now, Sam felt real, overwhelming guilt.

Before Sam could suffer a truly traumatizing breakdown, he heard it. Like the sound of a fire extinguisher, an audible substance was suddenly blasting into the tight cavern. In an instant, Sam could feel a sickeningly cold substance's slimy film gather around his ankles.

His hands still shaking, Sam fumbled to get the mask secured on his face. Within seconds, the gaseous substance was gathering around his face. Breathing deeply, Sam reminded himself that he could breathe. For a moment, it was a relief.

After that moment passed, he allowed himself to cry.

**.o0o.**

"Here, take mine," Dean said without hesitation, shoving the functional mask into Castiel's hands. This was the best possible path; he could die without having to force Castiel to physically take his life.

"Dean, that is absurd," Castiel's gruff voice was even lower, his throat still swelling from Michael's grip. "If I were to win the Hunger Games, it'd be a statistical anomaly."

"Take it!" Dean was losing his patience. "I remember you talking about your sister, and I remember how you looked at Claire. You're a good person, a good person needs to win."

Castiel looked down at the gravel. Dean couldn't tell what was going on behind his huge blue eyes, but he was instantly saddened by it.

"Dean, looking at this logically you cannot possibly conclude that I will make it out of here alive. I am not going to be able to kill anyone," Castiel paused for a second, recognizing Dean's growing frown but not understanding it's significance.

"I know you can. Winning this requires it, and that doesn't make you a bad person. Win this, Dean, and show that to your district. Show them a victor can be good."

And then, as Castiel finished speaking, a gaseous fog as thick and grey as a stormcloud surged into the space.

"It's your choice, Dean Winchester," Castiel said, maintaining his heart wrenching stare.

Dean took back the mask, never breaking eye contact. Silently, he slipped it onto his face and brought his hands to encase the younger tribute's.

"I'll choose right, Cas," he said, struggling to maintain his composure. "I'll choose right."

Like a million dark graveyard flowers, the thick gas blanketed the boy. As Dean felt his hand spasm and still, he didn't let go.

Dean would never truly let go of the boy from District 5.

**.o0o.**

Somewhere down the path, Michael woke to the sharp pangs of pain as they crept through his shattered nose and into his unsuspecting lungs. Instantaneously, his hand flung to his arm. Closest to his body remained the one mask he had intentionally spared. He slid it effortlessly up onto his beaten face and laughed a bloody laugh.

The others probably thought him dead, but a career like him would never die like that.

_Forget career_, Michael thought. _I am the victor._

In the distance, a young girl's scream shattered the calming ooze of the poisonous fog.

Michael was prepared for the climax that was about to come.


End file.
